GIFT   OF 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS, 


BY 


TRIFLE    AND    THE    EDITOR 


BOSTON: 
WHITTEMORE,    NILES,    AND    HALL. 

MILWAUKEE:    A.  WHITTEMORE    &    CO. 
M  DCCC  LYI. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1856,  by 

WHITTEMORE,  NILES,  AND  HALL, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


CAMBRIDGE: 

Tncnsxox   AND    TORRT,   PRINTERS. 


TO 

GEORGE    STILLMAN    HILLARD, 

WHO    HAS    PROVED   THAT   THE   PURSUITS    OF    LITERATURE   ARE   NOT 

INCONSISTENT   WITH    THE   DUTIES  OF   A   PRACTICAL 

AND    PROFESSIONAL    LIFE, 

THIS    VOLUME    IS    CORDIALLY    INSCRIBED    BY   THE 

AUTHORS. 


248183 


PREFATORY. 


ONE  bright  day  in  the  summer  of  '55,  when 
the  sun  glared  fiercely  upon  the  bricks  and 
slates  of  the  hard-baked  city,  and  the  fashion 
able  world  had  fled  to  Saratoga,  or  Newport,  or 
the  sea-shore,  the  writers  of  the  following  papers 
turned  aside  from  the  hot  and  dusty  streets  to 
the  green  sward  of  the  Common ;  and  under 
the  shadow  of  the  old  elms  reclined  for  a  sea 
son,  to  indulge  in  fresher  airs  and  in  friendly 
discourse.  Trifle  had  recently  migrated  from 
the  town,  and  pitched  his  tent  in  the  country, 
where  he  could  look  upon  wooded  hills  and 
hear  the  music  of  the  sea.  The  relief  from  the 
oppression  of  city  life,  and  the  genial  influences 
of  the  country,  expanded  his  generous  heart,  arid 
with  a  kindly  impulse  he  proposed  to  write  a 
letter  from  his  new  domicile  for  the  Editor's  pa 
per.  The  offer  was  gladly  accepted,  together 
with  the  condition  that  a  reply  should  follow  in 
the  same  columns. 

It  was  thus  that  the  Trifleton  Papers  were 
commenced,  and  there  it  was  supposed  they 


VI  PREFATORY. 

would  end,  nothing  farther  being  contemplat 
ed.  But,  once  begun,  the  letters  promised  to 
become  a  pleasant  pastime,  and  were  contin 
ued  from  week  to  week  —  suspended  by  no 
sorrow  or  misfortune  —  recording  thoughts,  im 
pressions,  emotions,  and  fancies,  and,  more  than 
all,  ripening  a  friendship  begun  years  before,  and 
opening  new  sources  of  enjoyment. 

And  the  letters  found  generous  readers. 
"  Who  is  Trifle  ?  "  "  Who  writes  the  Trifleton 
Papers  ?  "  were  not  infrequent  inquiries.  Then 
there  were  friends,  perhaps  too  partial  critics, 
who  expressed  a  warm  interest  in  the  successive 
papers,  and  commended  them  as  worthy  of  more 
numerous  readers,  and  a  more  enduring  form. 
Finally,  there  were  those  whose  literary  taste 
and  judgment  may  not  be  questioned,  who 
warmly  urged  the  collection  of  the  papers  and 
their  publication  within  the  covers  of  a  book. 

Therefore  it  is  that  the  authors  of  the  Trifle- 
ton  Papers  have  come  to  find  their  literary 
pastime  shaped  into  a  volume  under  the  au 
spices  of  Messrs.  WHITTEMORE,  NILES,  and 
HALL,  with  the  understanding  that  every  copy 
is  to  amuse,  cheer,  or —  disappoint  somebody. 

THE  ARM    CHAIR, 
In  the  Spring  of  '50. 


TRIFLETON  PAPERS. 


I. 


TRIFLETON  HOUSE,   > 
In  July,  A.  D.  '55.  f 

MR.  EDITOR  :  — We  have  done  the  deed.  We  have 
left  the  town  behind  us.  We  have  said  "  good-bye  " 
to  the  proud  world.  We  have  gone  home,  to our 
selves,  in  a  certain  sense,  —  to  our  interior  nature,  to 
our  God,  it  is  to  be  hoped.  At  least,  we  are  where  we 
are  surrounded  by  the  evidences  of  His  greatness  and 
goodness  and  love.  We  are  sandwiched  betwixt  the 
ocean  and  the  hills.  We  are  or  shall  become  amphi 
bious,  as  I  told  my  wife  on  the  day  we  first  examined 
Trifleton  House. 

"  Why  !  look  out  of  this  window  (our  chamber  win 
dow),  Trifle,"  said  she.  "  D'ye  call  this  a  house  in 
the  country  ?  "  There  rolled,  at  our  feet,  God's  great, 
moaning,  toiling  sea. 

"  Why,  look  out  of  this  window,  Pat."  (short  for 
Patience),  said  I,  pulling  her  away  to  another,  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  room,  and  there,  heaving  away  in 
the  distance,  were  God's  eternal  hills. 

We  came,  we  saw,  we  conquered  our  prejudices  in 
favor  of  the  town,  where  we,  at  least,  had  daily  con 
tact  with  certain  cultured  and  selectest  spirits,  such 


8  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

as  your  own,  my  Achates,  and  we  became  the 
owners  of  Trifleton  House.  For  no  mere  summer 
residence,  mark  you,  but  "  for  better,  for  worse  ;  " 
"  for  richer,  for  poorer,"  —  for  "  all  the  year  round," 
to  use  a  most  elegant  and  felicitous  expression.  Yes, 
.sir,  we  are  fixed  ;  —  we  are  become  incorporated. 
Henceforth,  our  chief  distinguishing  trait  is  that  we 
occupy  and  own  Trifleton  House.  Do  you  hear  that, 
sir  ?  —  own.  I  have  not  wrangled  "  in  business  "  so 
long  for  nothing.  I  don't  rush  to  town  with  a  diurnal 
rashness  and  fierceness,  which  is  intensely  American, 
or  Yankeeish,  if  you  please,  without  making  some 
thing.  I've  actually  "  laid  up"  in  the  last  ten  years, 
quite  a  surprising  number  of  dollars,  which,  with  Pat.'s 
dowry,  you  remember,  makes  a  considerable  sum. 
But  we  havn't  paid  a  very  great  deal.  All  I  know  is, 
we  have  paid, —  actually  paid  "  something  handsome  " 
on  account  of  Trifleton  House.  The  rest  of  the  pur 
chase-money,  which  is  only  some  five  or  six  thousand 
dollars,  Pat.'s  father  kindly  advanced  for  us,  and  we 
gave  him  a  mortgage,  as  the  lawyers  call  it,  which 
makes  it  all  right,  you  know. 

I  don't  think  I  ought  to  write  so  much  about  our 
property  to  an  editor,  for  it  might  make  you  envious 
or  avaricious.  If  you  want  to  be  a  man  of  property, 
you  must  "  study  economy ;  "  yes,  sir,  "  study  econ 
omy."  Those  words  I've  heard  my  father  utter  for 
years.  They  are  his.  They  belong  to  him.  Pie's 
told  me  to  "  study  economy,  "  from  my  earliest  child 
hood,  and  I've  done  it.  But  he  never  told  me  to 
<s  practice  economy,"  —  not  he,  and  I've  never  done 
it.  I  hold  to  obeying  one's  parents.  We  are  too  self- 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  9 

reliant,  not  to  siy  self-sufficient,  we  of  this  genera 
tion.  We  are  too  apt  to  think  those  who  are  more 
ancient  than  ourselves  "  old  fogies."  But  it  won't  do. 
They  know  some  things  as  well  as  we.  Hence,  let  us 
acknowledge  their  wisdom,  and  obey  their  admoni 
tions.  But,  I  digress, — I  wander.  I  always  do, 
when  I  think  of  owning  Trifleton  House. 

I  don't  observe  that  it  has  affected  Pat.  much  yet, 
but  then,  you  know,  she's  so  simple. 

"•  Trifle,"  said  she,  a  few  evenings  since,  u  do  you 
feel  proud,  proud  as  you  expected  to,  now  that 
we  own  Trifleton  House  ?  " 

"  No,  Pat.,"  said  1, — "  not  as  I  expected  to,  —  but 
—  I  expect  I  shall." 

u  Well,  Trifle,"  said  she,  ''  now  that  Pa  has  repaired 
it  for  us,  I  think  it's  a  house  good  enough  for  anybody 
to  live  in.  I'm  sure  it's  a  nicer  house  than  Serene 
Complacency's  house  in  Boston,  or  Betty  Dasherton's 
house  in  Roxbury.  If  their  fathers  are  rich,  they 
didn't  either  of  them  marry  so  well, —  such  an  active, 
business,  money-making  man,  as  I  did,  Trifle.  Still, 
they  have  very  good  houses,  —  very  good,  indeed,  and 

tolerable  husbands.  One  would  think,  to  hear 

them  talk,  that  they  were  all  in  the  world  ;  but  in  my 
opinion,  we,  —  though  I'm  by  no  means  proud  about 
it,  or  "stuck  up,"  as  Stubs  says,  —  we " 

"  Own  Trifleton  House,  my  dear!  " 

I  wound  my  arms  about  her  neck  and  saluted  her 
with  a  kiss,  and  lighting  a  cigar,  I  proceeded  into  the 
garden  to  examine  my  beets,  and  Pat.'s  tomatoe  plants. 
We  have  both.  We've  got  a  bed  of  the  latter,  and  an 
indefinite  extra  quantity  scattered,  one  at  a  time,  in  all 


10  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

sorts  of  by-places  in  the  garden.  Pat.  says  she  wants 
tomatoes  enough  to  last  into  the  fall.  If  we  get  any. 
I  shall  regard  it  as  a  prodigious  triumph,  for,  to  tell 
you  the  truth,  /  have  been  raising  them.  Tm  the  in 
dividual,  "  adsum  qui  fed"  and  I  don't  believe  I'm 
u  death  "  on  gardening.  I  do  it  all  my  own  way,  you 
see.  I  do  it  for  amusement  and  exercise  and  profit. 
Doubtless,  though,  it's  the  mission  of  men  to  dig  and 
grub  and  grovel  since  that  shabby  trick  of  Adam,  and 
that  shabbier  one  of  Eve.  I  never  knew  a  woman 
who  did  not  like  sour  green  apples.  It's  a  trait  they 
inherit  from  Eve. 

I  hardly  calculate  much  on  the  profit  from  my  gar 
den  this  year,  because,  at  the  very  outset,  I  had  to 
bribe  a  gardenerto  dig  me,  and  plant  me,  and  set  me 
starting,  and  he  has  imposed  upon  me,  I  verily  believe. 
Else,  why  do  my  potatoes  grow  so  impetuously  ? 
They've  already  beat  the  corn.  They're  up  to  your 
chin.  Zounds  !  man,  I've  been  laughed  at  on  account 
of  'em.  My  lazy  brother-in-law  says  I've  cultivated 
them  too  much.  But  there's  as  much  sense  in  his 
opinion  as  there  was  in  that  of  a  friend  of  mine,  who 
advocated  in  my  hearing  the  other  day,  the  stupen 
dous  absurdity,  that  we  educated  our  people  too  much 
here  in  New  England.  Sons  of  the  Pilgrims,  hear 
you  that  ?  Are  education  and  cultivation  despicable, 
in  God's  name  ?  No !  No !  forever  and  forever, 

No  !     Produce   and   cultivate  !    but out  with  the 

weeds!  Don't  lop  'em  off,  but  dig  them  out,  out  by 
the  roots  —  away  with  'em  !  —  the  weeds  —  and  leave 
the  rest  to  Providence  !  Certain  others  of  my  friends 
are  of  opinion  that  their  rankness,  as  they  call  it,  will 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  11 

result  in  —  "all  vines  and  no  potatoes."  But  this  is 
pure  envy  and  the  most  malevolent  scandal.  I'll 
have  potatoes,  —  I'm  determined  on  it,  —  of  my  own 
raising,  and  they  won't  cost  me  more  than  six  times 
as  much  as  I  could  buy  them  for,  neither. 

But  the  radishes,  Mr.  Editor.  I  claim  them  as  a 
personal  triumph.  "  Don't  plant  'em,"  said  my  Nestor. 
u  They  won't  grow,"  exclaimed  my  Ulysses.  "  They'll 
be  all  wormy,"  vouchsafed  my  Solomon.  I  planted 
'em  indignantly  ;  and  —  haven't  they  succeeded  ? 
Havn't  we  "  had  'em,"  Pd  like  to  know  ?  Soft, 
delicate,  touchey,  impressible,  facile,  yielding  as  the 
cheek  of  Pink.  (We  have  a  neighbor,  and  her  name 
is  Pink,  just  as  we  have  a  neighbor  whose  name  is 
Stubs.)  There  are  no  worms  or  fibres  about  'em  ; 
but  they  are  radishes  indeed.  They  are  a  compensa 
tion.  They  are  a  satisfaction.  They  make  amends 
for  the  potatoes.  (Isn't  there  a  potatoe  rot  about?) 
They  redeem,  they  sustain,  they  establish  Trifleton 
House.  Oh,  crisp,  brittle,  delectable  radish  —  forever 
and  forever,  hail  ! 

But,  calmest  and  most  placid  of  editors,  it's  time  Pd 
bequeathed  my  farewell.  You  are,  even  in  your  dual 
or  plural  number,  (notwithstanding  your  "  you,"  or 
your  "ye,"  or  your  "we,")  — you  are  too  inconse 
quential  and  inconsiderable  to  occupy  more  of  "our" 
attention.  Hence  "farewell  !"  We  give  you  a  "  vale" 
—  and,  not  only  a  "  vale,"  but  a  "  longurn  vale !  " 

l'Macte  virtute  /"  Be  wise  and  just  and  generous, 
as  men  are,  some  of  them,  (who  ever  saw  a  generous 
woman,  except  in  a  scene  or  hour  of  distress?)  and 
you  will  accomplish  your  mission  !  Keats  failed,  and 


12  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

Byron  capitally  failed  (weak  and  ineligious  fool)  ; 
but,  with  a  sweet  and  delicious  childlike  trust,  you  can 
succeed.  Consider  that  you  are  travelling  home  !  You 
are  walking  this  dusty  earth  but  for  a  season.  If  you 
are  not  ripe,  it  is  to  be  hoped  you  will  be  soon.  Take 
care  that  you  do  not  fall  green !  Good  bye  —  dear 
Editor  (to  be  affectionate,  dearest  Editor),  good  bye ! 
appreciate  and  be  grateful  for  this  letter  from  Trifle 
—  and  —  farewell ! 

Alas  !  Did  I  forget  the  boy  ?  the  new,  the  last,  the 
incipient  boy.  Suffice  it  to  say,  "  he  has  come  ! " 
He  has  adventured  into  this  world.  He  has  come  to 
tempt  its  joys  and  essay  its  sorrows.  But,  chiefly,  thus 
far,  he  has  —  screamed.  He's  a  "  stunner  ;"  he's  a  — 
in  a  word — he's  "a  perfect  screamer."  Prig  evi 
dently  likes  him,  and  apologizes  for  him.  Prig,  you 
remember,  is  approximating  four  years.  Hence,  is 
he  important 

"What  makes  your  little  brother  cry  ?  "  say  I. 

"  He's  a  little  fellow.  He  don't  know  any  better," 
says  Prig. 

Ah !  Presently  Prig  himself  is  screaming  outra 
geously. 

"  Why  does  Prig  scream  ?  "  I  say  to  him. 

"  'Cause,"  is  his  reply. 

What  a  facile,  ready  word  is  "  'cause."  We  con 
demn,  we  excuse  the  faults  of  others,  it  may  be,  but 
when  we  are  asked  why  we  do  so  and  so,  we  answer, 
"  'cause  !  "  Will  it  do,  Mr.  Editor —  will  it  do  in  the 
great  hereafter  ?  Can  we  sin  along  in  this  world,  and 
plead  "  'cause"  in  the  next?  Ask  yourself!  Where 
many  are  called  and  but  few  chosen,  can  we  plead 
successfully  —  "  'cause  ?  "  Think,  think,  oh  think ! 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  13 

But  I  will  leave  you  thinking,  and  meantime  re 
member  me  sweetly  and  affectionately  to  Mrs.  Editor. 
Say  to  her  that  Trifle  salutes  her  ;  that  Trifle  says  this 
to  her  —  exactly  this  —  no  more,  no  less.  Trifle  says, 
"  Mrs.  Editor  —  Hail !  and  Farewell !  " 


14  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 


II 


THE  ARM  CHAIR, 
Summer  Time. 

THE  sangfroid  with  which  you  presume  to  address 
an  editor  through  his  own  columns,  O  ingenuous  Trifle, 
is  deserving  of  notice  truly,  and  we,  the  editor  and  the 
arm  chair  —  regard  our  dual  mightiness  more  reve 
rently  henceforth  —  will  even  condescend  or  aspire, 
just  as  you  please,  to  send  you  greeting  in  a  similar 
manner,  not  forgetting  to  thank  you  for  having  your 
wondrous  chirography  metamorphosed  into  plain  print. 

We  congratulate  you  that  you  have  at  last  chosen 
the  better  part,  and  left  the  city,  with  its  eternal  deaf 
ening  din,  its  brick  and  mortar,  its  toil  and  traffic,  its 
folly  and  fashion,  its  poverty  and  penury,  its  vice  and 
crime,  all  behind  you,  and  have  gone  "  into  the  coun 
try."  The  half-smothered  aspirations  of  your  soul 
have  at  length  found  expression,  and  have  been  devel 
oped  into  deeds  —  rather  should  we  say  into  the  deed 
which  conveyed  to  you  the  broad  domain  of  Trifleton 
House.  Broad  domain,  we  say,  most  guileless  friend, 
for  we  measure  not  by  Gunter's  chain,  and  though 
your  estate  of  Trifleton  comprises  only  a  few  rods, 
evidently  you  are  rich  in  the  bounteous  supply  of  satis 
faction  which  it  yields,  more  to  be  husbanded  and  gar- 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  15 

nered  and  valued  than  all  your  potatoes  or  radishes, 
beets  or  tomatoes.  Rich  you  are,  Trifle,  even  in  that 
delightful  disregard  of  mortgage  deeds  which  makes 
Trifleton  House  so  emphatically  yours.  Rich  and  in 
the  country,  —  what  more  can  we  desire  for  you,  O 
fortunate  Trifle,  when  we  remember  that  with  these 
blessings  you  have  Pat.  and  sundry  little  trifles  to  add 
to  your  happiness  ? 

But  absolutely  refreshing  is  it  to  hear  you  talk,  or 
rather  to  read  your  talk  on  rural  matters.  You  have 
gone  to  live  in  the  country; — pray,  have  you  read, 
and  has  Mrs.  Trifle  read,  the  experiences  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Sparrowgrass  ?  They  lived  in  the  country  — 
thorough-bre'd  city  folk,  they  wished  to  prove  by  expe 
rience  the  delights  of  rural  life  ;  and  so  they  did. 
You  are  doing  likewise  —  you  and  Mrs.  Trifle  —  and 
is  it  with  like  success  ?  In  the  course  of  your  life  in 
your  daily  walks  to  and  fro  in  the  stony  streets  of  the 
city — (what  potent  influence  in  those  stones  petrifies 
the  hearts  and  souls  of  those  who  day  after  day  tramp 
over  them  to  toil?)  —  doubtless  in  these  daily  walks 
you  have  seen  a  tree,  and  in  your  occasional  excur 
sions,  during  your  brief  vacation  from  the  ledger,  you 
have  found  something  in  your  soul  expand  as  you 
looked  upon  mountains,  woods,  and  the  never-ending, 
varied  beauty  of  nature.  We  admit,  most  genial  friend, 
that  you  have  a  soul,  and  that,  with  proper  advanta 
ges,  you  might  be  a  lover  of  nature,  yea,  a  poet ;  but 
the  fates  have  spared  us  that,  while  the  lurking  sen 
timent  about  you  has  almost  spoiled  a  respectable 
clerk,  and  quite  ruined  your  prospects  as  a  successful 
merchant ;  —  for  all  which  we  congratulate  you,  since 
now  you  may  become  a  man. 


16  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

But  what  do  you  know  practically  about  things 
rural  and  agricultural  ?  Can  you  tell  the  difference 
between  a  turnip  and  a  cabbage,  when  growing?  be 
tween  a  pear  tree  and  an  elm  ?  between  an  aster  and 
a  dahlia  ?  We  can  speak  ex  cathedra.  When  we 
were  a  boy,  we  used  to  roll  in  clover,  climb  apple 
trees  for  birds'  nests,  rest  upon  a  pumpkin  in  a  corn 
field,  or  sleep  on  the  new-mown  hay.  Vegetables 
and  fruit  were  known  to  us,  not  when  transformed 
into  something  else  by  some  city  cuisine,  but  in  their 
natural  state  ;  for  didn't  we  study  agriculture  practi 
cally  and  experimentally  by  digging  up  seed  to  see  if 
it  had  sprouted,  or  by  exploring  into  the  mystery  of 
potatoe  hills? — and  flowers  were  not  mere  leafless 
bunches  of  fading  blossoms,  yclept  bouquets,  but  robes 
of  living  beauty,  which  clothed  the  garden. 

We  looked  out  upon  hill  and  vale,  dark  woods  and 
waving  fields  ;  we  played  and  sported  under  the  tall 
old  trees,  and  lay  down  on  the  soft  green  turf  scented 
with  blossoms,  to  dream  those  golden  dreams  that 
come  to  childhood  and  youth  alone.  Never,  save  for 
a  brief  space,  have  brick  walls  hemmed  us  in,  or  the 
fiery  pavement  scorched  our  feet.  And  though  the 
mighty  humbug  "  improvement"  comes  gradually  rob 
bing  us  of  the  rural  delights  of  old,  we  are  still  a 
lover  of  nature's  beauty  and  of  rural  pursuits,  with  an 
affection  which  is  the  growth  of  our  life-time,  not  the 
half-conscious  desire  of  a  soul  ignorant  of  what  it  de 
sires  ;  and  we  still  enjoy  the  rus  in  urbe  with  more 
than  the  olden  delight.  Remember,  therefore,  most 
confiding  of  correspondents,  that  we  know  something 
about  potatoes  and  radishes,  —  not  that  we  admire  the 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  17 

latter  as  you,  with  your  simple  and  uncultivated  taste, 
profess  to  do,  —  and  we  advise  you  to  expect  only 
very  "  small  potatoes,  and  few  in  a  hill,"  or  to  make 
up  your  mind  that  there  is  a  rot  quite  prevalent  among 
these  esculents. 

But  while  potatoes  are  our  theme,  let  us  tell  you 
that  our  neighbor,  Shrimp,  has  a  small  patch  of  potatoes 
that  would  unceremoniously  overshadow  yours.  They 
were  planted  at  the  foot  of  a  pear  tree,  but  they  have 
completely  overtopped  it  now,  and  Shrimp,  who  is  as 
simple  as  you  are  in  all  things  rural  and  agricultural 
—  his  forte  is  Jishing  —  has  procured  some  poles  for 
them  to  grow  on,  he  having  heard  that  beans  are 
poled,  and  not  fully  appreciating  the  difference  in  the 
plants.  And  then  your  bed  of  tomatoes  —  but  you 
will  learn  in  time,  and  your  ignorance  is  a  misfortune 
for  which,  doubtless,  your  plants  weep  each  night ; 
pray  do  you  not  find  them  in  tears  each  morning  ? 

But  to  pick  up  those  radishes  which  we  just  now 
dropped  so  unceremoniously,  —  those  radishes  over 
which  you  fall  into  ecstasies,  and  go  off  into  such  wild 
exclamations,  calling  them  "  soft,  delicate,  touchey, 
impressible,  facile,  yielding  as  the  cheek  of  Pink." 
De  gustibus,  etc.  —  you  may  have  heard  the  quotation. 
But  to  call  a  radish  soft,  impressible,  yielding  !  Can 
ignorance  excuse  that,  or  infatuation  farther  go  ?  Is 
it  not  a  crisp,  curt,  biting  thing,  like  some  tempers  ? 
Manifestly  were  you  thinking  of  Pink's  cheek,  rather 
than  of  this  plant,  whose  growth  is  downward  into  the 
earth,  not  upward  towards  heaven. 

How  is  it  that  you  are  so  prone  to  root-crops, — 
potatoes,  beets,  radishes,  earthy  things  entirely  ?  You 
2 


18  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

do  not  talk  of  trees  and  their  delicious  fruits,  nor  even 
of  peas,  or  beans,  or  vines,  much  less  of  flowers.  Is 
it  because  your  theory  of  cultivation  applies  only  to 
such  crops  ?  You  will  find  (we  have  hopes  of  your 
learning  much  now  you  are  in  the  proper  school)  that 
to  "  root  out  the  weeds  and  leave  the  rest  to  Provi 
dence,"  is  not  what  Providence  expects,  either  in  the 
material  or  the  moral  field.  There  are  plants,  beauti 
ful  and  productive,  to  which  you  must  give  sustenance, 
moisture  to  sustain  them  against  the  scorching  heat  of 
the  sun ;  soil,  lest  on  the  stony  ground  they  wither  for 
want  of  root ;  you  must  train  and  nurse  and  support 
their  delicate  branches,  till  they  are  strong  and  vigor 
ous  to  bear  their  blossoms  and  their  fruits ;  ay,  you 
must  even  prune  and  lop  off  their  limbs,  that  they 
may  not,  by  too  great  luxuriance,  overshadow  or  inter 
fere  with  other  no  less  valuable  plants.  All  this  and 
more  must  you  do  ;  Providence  is  not  to  be  your  gar 
dener. 

One  of  the  most  lamentable  exemplifications  of  your 
want  of  rural  culture,  O  townbred  Trifle,  is  your  most 
ungenerous  and  unsupported  assertion  that  all  women 
inherit  from  Eve  a  propensity  to  eat  'c  sour  green  ap 
ples."  Pshaw !  man,  you  haven't  lived  in  the  country 
long  enough  to  know  that  it  is  ripe  fruit  only  that 
tempts  the  accustomed  eye, —  doubtless  all  your  apples 
will  be  eaten  before  they  are  half  ripe.  But  were  not 
Adam  and  Eve  placed  in  Paradise  at  the  outset  ?  — in 
that  delightful  garden  where  were 

"  Groves  whose  rich  trees  wept  odorous  gums  and  balm; 
Others  whose  fruit  burnished  with  golden  rind, 
Hung  amiable,  Hesperian  fables  true, 
If  true,  here  only,  and  of  delicious  taste." 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  19 

And  could  they  be  tempted  by  "  sour  green  apples  ?  " 
Besides,  the  forbidden  fruit  was  one 

"  which  to  behold 

Might  tempt  alone ;  " 

and  it  had  a  "  smell  so  savoury,"  that  you  may  be  quite 
sure  that  it  was  not  "  sour  green  apples."  Eve  was 
not  to  be  tempted  by  such  "sour  green  apples"  as 
grow  about  Trifleton  House,  nor  that  mean,  sleek,  de 
ceitful,  insinuating  serpent  either;  not  they, — so  you 
can  as  well  retract  your  shabby  assertion,  and  no 
more,  like  a  great  shirk,  try  to  put  the  burden  of  your 
digging  on  Father  Adam's  back. 

Akin  to  this  shabby  "  sour  green  apple  charge,"  is 
another  parenthetical  inquiry.  Such  a  parenthesis  is 
a  most  uncourteous  intruder,  —  doubtless  a  town-bred 
fellow.  "  Whoever  saw  a  generous  woman,  except  in 
a  scene  or  hour  of  distress  ?  "  A  pregnant  exception 
truly,  by  which  we  may  acknowledge  the  presence  of 
angels  when  manifested  by  transcendent  goodness  and 
mercy.  Do  you  realize,  most  condescending  of  men, 
what  heavenly  qualities  you  allow  to  women  even  in 
those  half  churlish  words  ?  Yet  how  much  do  you 
deny  them  ;  else,  if  your  implied  proposition  be  true, 
then  is  man's  whole  life  a  scene  of  distress.  True, 
women  don't  go  to  State  street  or  Wall  street  to  lend 
money  at  twelve  per  cent.,  and  go  home  and  endow 
colleges,  or  do  other  charitable  deeds  which  are  duly 
chronicled  in  the  journals  ;  these  walks  are  fully  occu 
pied  by  generous  man.  But  look  at  yourself,  O  honest 
preacher,  and  out  of  your  own  experience  evolve  a 
general  and  a  generous  truth.  Can  you  look  in  your 


20  TRIFLETON   PAPERS. 

wife's  face  and  utter  that  same  parenthesis  without  a 
blush  ?  Is  she  not  hourly  doing  or  contriving  some 
thing  for  your  pleasure,  or  comfort,  or  good,  even 
while  you  sit  writing  such  disloyal  words  ?  Does  she 
not  pray  for  you  each  night,  and  each  morning  shower 
blessings  on  you  ?  Where  is  her  dowry  but  in  Trifleton 
House  for  your  benefit  ?  and  has  she  not  signed  that 
mortgage  deed  just  to  gratify  you  ?  For  the  rest,  ask 
Prig  ;  ask  the  incipient  boy.  They  shall  teach  you 
lessons,  —  they  and  the  benign  influences  of  rural 
life. 

But  we  must  pause  ;  time  is  not  to  be  wasted  always. 
Your  suggestive  letter,  most  genial  Trifle,  has  led  us 
further  than  we  intended.  We  find  in  it  touches  on 
which  we  should  stop  to  think,  and  so  we  will  lay 
aside  the  pen,  without  imparting  that  instruction  which 
we  might  vouchsafe  to  a  neophyte  in  things  rural. 
Not,  however,  till  we  request  —  (ought  not  "we"  to 
command?)  that  you  send  us  another  token  —  yea, 
repeated  tokens  of  your  remembrance.  The  delect 
able  Pink  is  unknown  to  us,  save  by  that  superlatively 
inapt  simile  ;  let  us  have  a  more  pleasing  glimpse.  In 
short,  write  us  another  letter,  Trifle,  —  write  us  letters; 
we'll  give  them  all  to  —  "the  devil."  Commend  us 
and  our  household  to  the  household  of  Trifleton,  and 
so  good-bye. 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  21 


III. 


TRIFLETON  HOUSE,  > 

In  the  incipient  Dog  Days,  '55.  $ 

THE  style  in  which  you,  a  City  Editor,  press  your 
claims  to  be  considered  peculiarly  "  rural,"  rustic,  or 
green  (to  comprehend  all  in  a  word),  is  extremely  en 
gaging.  Who  ever  disputed  them  ?  The  following  sen 
tence  in  your  letter,  however,  troubles  me  exceedingly  : 

"  In  short,  write  us  another  letter,  Trifleton,  —  write 
us  letters  ;  we  '11  give  them  all  to  —  the  devil" 

I  can't  decide  which  is  the  more  admirable,  —  its 
profanity  or  its  assurance.  In  a  state  of  phrenzied 
excitement,  I  rushed  out  among  the  corn,  and  stretch 
ing  forth  my  hand  towards  the  cucumbers  (in  which 
my  interest  has  been  so  constantly  growing  of  late  that 
I  felt  I  could  confide  in  them),  I  addressed  them  "  sub 
stantially  as  follows,"  as  the  newspapers  said  that 
reported  my  first  harangue  in  public. 

"  Is  the  man  beside  himself,  that  he  expects  me  to 
throw  off  these  brilliant  things  at  his  bidding?  — Am 
I  to  frequently  furnish  his  readers  with  letters  such  as 
Charles  Lamb  never  would,  —  never  could  (exclaimed 
I,  waxing  warmer)  have  written  ?  "  The  cucumbers, 
at  this  stage,  maintained  the  most  respectful  silence 
and  attention,  but  when  I  said,  — 


22  TRIFLETON   PAPERS. 

"  And,  moreover,  (here  I  ground  my  teeth  and  curled 
my  lip  with  the  most  withering  scorn  and  indignation,) 
it  is  to  be  supposed,  for  a  single  moment,  —  nay,  nay 

for  a  single (here  I  broke  down  slightly,  till  I 

happened  to  think  of  the  word  "  instant")  — if  I  might 
be  permitted  to  use  such  an  expression  —  instant  (with 
forcible,  feeble  emphasis),  is  it  to  be  expected  that  I 
am  not  only  to  send  him  letters,  but  that  he  is  to  give 
them  all  — '  to  the  devil  ?  '  What  say  you,  my  friends, 
for  a  single  moment,  —  or  instant,  —  J  pray  to  know  ?  " 
When  I  uttered  this,  the  agitation  of  the  corn  was  ap 
parent,  and  the  cucumbers  visibly  crept  and  crawled 
all  over. 

The  meeting  dissolved,  however,  —  (mercury  above 
90)  —  without  arriving  at  any  fixed  conclusion,  it  being 
determined  that  the  question  was  too  momentous  to  be 
settled  without  serious  consideration. 

Upon  conferring  with  Pat.,  she  recommended  me  to 
sleep  upon  it.  I  accordingly  tucked  "  The  Editor's  " 
paper  under  my  pillow  (which  seemed  very  soft  that 
night,  doubtless  because  I  was  so  tired),  and  awoke 
with  the  firm  conviction  that  I  would  better  write  again 
in  order  to  provoke  a  reply  from  you,  for  Pat.  read 
with  the  serenest  complacency  what  you  indited  upon 
the  "  heavenly  qualities  "  of  women.  She  says  you 
accurately  understand  and  have  evidently  studied  the 
sex,  and  when  I  remarked  upon  the  "  masculine  vigor" 
of  one  of  your  periods,  she  hotly  resented  it,  and  said 
it  was  more  distinguished  for  its  refinement  and  deli 
cacy  of  sentiment  and  all  such  feminine  traits,  —  which 
was  probably  true,  for  —  whoever  yet  knew  a  woman 
to  be  mistaken  ? 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  23 

I  shall  write,  then,  my  Pythias,  with  a  sedulous  zeal ; 
but  take  care  how  you  throw  open  your  columns  to  me, 
for  I  do  not  always  write  with  a  gold  pen.  I  shall  have 
at  you  with  a  corroded  steel  one  at  times,  or  with  a 
blunt  pointed  quill.  I  shall  often  trouble  your  small 
imps  to  decipher  out  my  words,  and,  possibly,  I  shall 
trouble  and  annoy  your  readers  still  more. 

"  What  does  this  Trifle,  with  his  Pat.  and  his  Prig 
and  his  Pink  and  his  Stubs,  amount  to  ?  "  I  hear  one 
of  your  "  srriart "  subscribers  say.  "  What  does  he 
prove  ?  What  is  there  practical  or  useful  about  him  ? 
Why  should  he  write  ?  " 

Sure  enough,  my  crisp  commentator !  Your  in 
terrogatories  are  apt,  and  so  is  your  sagacity.  You 
are  evidently  too  many  guns  for  me,  and  so'I  will 
quietly  step  out  of  your  sunshine,  and  you  may  go  to 
the . 

No  !  I  wasn't  going  to  say  that.  It's  not  surprising 
that  you  thought  I  was,  because  it's  the  language  you 
hear  on  the  'change,  and  which  you  are  quite  used  to 
in  your  wranglings  in  State  street  and  Wall  street,  but 
it  is  not  the  language  of  Trifleton  House. 

There  is,  sir,  no  good,  valid  and  substantial  reason 
why  I  should  write  (to  answer  as  curtly  as  you  ask), 
except  —  except  —  "  for  the  fun  of  it."  Do  you  un 
derstand  what  that  means,  my  fellow  pilgrim  ?  (Come, 
now,  let  us  meet  in  a  common  humanity,  and  show 
each  other  our  hearts  !)  You  knew  what  it  meant 
once,  when  you  were  a  boy  ;  —  when  your  nature  was 
fresher,  and  you  were  not  quite  so  "  cultured  "  as  you 
are  now,  did  you  not  ?  What !  have  got  no  heart  to 
show  me  ? 


24  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

Why  !  "  how  you  talk  !  "  as  Pat.  would  say. 

You  wouldn't  have  me  understand  that  this  splendid 
career  you  are  running  is  blunting  and  warping  your 
affections,  certainly  ?  In  accomplishing  your  mission 
you  don't  find  your  heart  is  growing  hard,  do  you  ? 
This  "  business "  in  which  you  are  so  merged  and 
absorbed,  don't  spoil  you  for  everything  else,  does  it  ? 
Don't  you  ever  talk  and  laugh  with  your  wife  and  play 
with  your  babies,  and  thus  try  to  exorcise  the  devils  of 
care  and  anxiety  that  consume  you  day  and  night  ? 
If  not,  make  a  beginning  now,  and  after  some  sharp 
bargain  you  may  have  consummated  in  the  "  shrewd 
est  "  and  "  smartest "  and  most  "  practical "  style,  sit 
down  and  amuse  yourself  with  the  harmless  platitudes 
and  in-nocuous  nonsense  of  Trifle  of  Trifleton  House. 
Compare  yourself  with  him,  and  when  he  says  a  flat 
thing  here  and  there,  chuckle  over  it !  See  how  much 
better  your  teeth  have  been  cut  than  his  ;  —  in  a  word, 
see  his  weakness  and  your  own  strength,  —  if  you 
choose,  that  is  !  If  not,  you  can  pass  on.  I  am  touch 
ing  my  hat  as  I  say  it.  (Such  are  the  polite  manners 
at  Trifleton  House.)  But,  my  Christian  friend,  con 
sider  how  and  whither  you  are  travelling  !  You  look 
dusty  and  toil-worn  !  You  are  already  passed  beyond 
the  noon  of  life,  and,  if  I  am  a  judge,  you  are  by  no 
means  happy.  There's  a  great  aching  void  in  your 
heart.  You  see  I  know  you  have  a  heart,  after  all, 
however  you  try  to  conceal  it  from  the  world.  Rumor 
says  you  are  rich  ;  —  I'm  afraid  you  are  !  You  look 
like  a  rich  man,  and  —  I  —  pity  you  !  "  It  is  easier 
for  a  camel,"  &c.,  and,  if  I  am  correct  in  my  reading, 
"  a  certain  rich  man  "  wasn't  so  well  off  in  the  end  as 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  25 

poor  hungry  and  despised  Lazarus,  who  begged  at  his 
gate,  as  he  swept  by  him  daily,  in  his  "  purple  and 
fine  linen." 

I  trust  we  shall  meet  again.  You  will,  doubtless, 
continue  to  toil  on  for  "  a  little  more  "  money,  and 
will  become  more  weary  arrfl  overburdened  than  you 
are  now,  if  you  do  not  change.  But  I  trust  we  shall 
meet  again.  What  you  need  is  rest  and  retirement. 
You  don't  wan't  any  more  ships  or  houses.  Take  one 
of  your  houses  and  live  in  it.  Understand  and  appre 
ciate  the  great  mystery  of  life.  Study  and  ponder 
upon  your  mission. 

Humanize  and  educate  yourself,  and  your  household, 
and,  once  more  I  will  say  it,  I  trust  we  shall  meet 
again  ;  there,  walking  in  the  light  of  "  the  glory  of 
God;"  there,  reclining  and  resting  on  the  banks  of 
the  "  rivers  of  water  clear  as  crystal,"  with  our  bur 
dens  ended,  our  anxieties  past,  and  our  victory  over 
the  world  and  ourselves  accomplished. 

And  you,  most  fair  and  most  exuberant  Miss  of 
nineteen  summers,  who  have  sedulously  rushed  to 
"  the  Rehearsals,"  and  periodically  exhausted  your 
appetite  and  your  wit  at  Vinton's,  who  have  gone  into 
raptures  over  that  exquisite  love  of  a  singer,  Mario, 
(when  he  is  in  humor  enough  with  his  audience  to 
vouchsafe  to  sing,  that  is,)  but  have  failed  to  see 
his  palpable  inferiority  to  Salvi,  Perelli  even,  and 
perhaps  Vietti  (the  best  Edgardo,  all  things  considered, 
that  we  have  had),  nor  have  seen  anything  in  Grisi 
but  u  a  mere  actress,"  (whose  prototype,  however, 
could  have  been  nothing  short  of  a  Siddons,)  —  you, 
glibbest  of  talkers,  with  your  bright  eyes  and  your 


26  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

buoyant  nature  (a  less  polite  person  than  Trifle  would 
say  giddy),  who  have  been  to  Saratoga,  and  are  going 
to  Newport  —  not  to  listen  to  the  sad  voices  of  the 
sea,  but  to  the  —  Germanians,  —  you,  most  impulsive 
creature,  who  have  shed  .no  tears,  as  yet,  except  for 
the  young  man  with  the  feeble  and  almost  hopeless 
moustache  —  by  moonlight,  —  will  you  read  the  his 
tory  of  Trifleton  ?  Possibly  not ;  but  Pink  is  a  hand 
somer  and  far  more  brilliant  woman  than  you  will 
ever  be,  and  no  such  man  as  Stubs  will  ever  regard 
you,  till  you  shall  have  been  disciplined,  with  any 
stronger  feeling  than  that  of  curiosity  and,  shall  I 
venture  the  assertion? — compassion.  The  world  is 
real,  my  child,  and  life  is  earnest,  as  you  will  dis 
cover,  if  God  spares  your  life. 

But  revenons  a  nos  moutons  !  For  you,  at  least,  I 
will  write,  my  placid  Editor,  and  for  you  alone,  if 
need  be,  with  such  of  your  readers  as  can  be  enter 
tained  by  simple  and  unsophisticated  folk  like  those 
who  frequent  Trifleton  House. 

The  tomatoes  are  doing  wonders,  and  the  cucumbers 
and  squashes  making  the  most  steady  headway ;  but 
the  most  important  announcement  (you  say  I  do  not 
talk  of  beans)  I  have  to  make  (and  this,  as  you  will 
perceive,  is,  from  its  nature,  most  strictly  confidential), 
is  that,  somehow,  the  beans  where  the  poles  are,  refuse 
to  run  ;  and  the  poles  —  a  whole  regiment  of  them  — 
stand  stiff  and  stark  and  disconsolate  ;  whereas  the 
beans,  where  the  poles  are  not,  are  stretching  their 
fond  arms  about  for  something  to  embrace  and  lean 
upon,  in  the  most  sweetly  affectionate  style.  The 
manner  in  which  they  evidently  yearn  for  a  support 


TRIFLETON    TAPERS.  27 

is  extremely  touching.  But  I  encourage  them  all  I 
can  with  such  admonitions  as  — 

"  Creep  along,  creep  along !  You  are  young  yet, 
and  can't  expect  to  walk  very  bravely  !  But  do  your 
best,  without  assistance  !  Support  yourselves,  by 
hook  or  by  crook.  Acquire,  by  degrees,  a  sure  and 
steady  self-reliance,  and  you  will  in  the  end  surpass 
beans  that  started  with  you,  petted  and  supported  by 
all  the  appliances  of  extraneous  aid  and  comfort. 
Climb,  in  a  word,  without  poles,  and  indicate  to  the 
world  that,  by  the  sheer  force  of  your  own  worth  and 
dignity  of  character,  you  can  and  will  conquer!  Climb 
alone,  if  need  be !  Friends  and  sympathy  are  desir 
able,  but  not  indispensable.  At  all  events,  climb ! 
Even  if  you  should  fall,  you  would  be  no  worse  off 
than  if  you  were  lying,  impotent,  upon  the  ground, 
longing  and  waiting  and  weeping  for  poles.  Climb  !  — 
steadily,  calmly,  surely !  It  seems  impossible,  I  am 
aware,  but  it  is  not.  Climb,  climb,  oh  beans  despond 
ent,  climb!  Try!  and  despair  not,  and  you  will  be 
surprised  to  find  how  undoubtedly  you  will  mature 
and  ripen.  Be  less  impatient,  but,  keeping  steadily 
at  work,  be  content  to  bide  your-  time,  and,  my  word 
for  it,  you  will  never  disgrace  Trifleton  House." 

By  such  simple,  and,  it  may  be,  child-like  talk,  do 
I  encourage  them.  Doubtless  it  is  very  silly,  but  I 
have  observed,  that  just  this  sort  of  talk  works  won 
ders,  oftentimes,  with  the  faint  hearted. 

Stubs  is  perfectly  great  at  it.  Why,  an  old  woman 
told  me,  not  long  since,  "A  kind,  good  man  is  Mr. 
Stubs,  sir.  Folks  call  him  proud,  and  so  he  is,  like, 
but  he  never  forgets  me  in  rny  poverty ;  and,  when  I 


28  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

was  sick  last  winter,  he  was  always  coming  to  see  me 
to  comfort  me  and  encourage  me.  He's  as  good  as  a 
minister,  sir,  and,  then,  how  well  he  talks !  I'm  sorry. 
Miss  Pink  is  so  hard  upon  him.  She  says  he  is  too 
stiff  and  —  uncompromising,  or  some  such  thing.  But 
she  don't  know  everything,  and  besides,  if  she  is  so 
beautiful,  and  her  father  is  so  rich,  and  her  name  was 
in  the  newspapers  about  the  grand  ball,  at  Newport, 
I  believe  they  call  it,  she  is  not  so  kind-hearted  as 
she  might  be.  Why,  she  never  walked  into  my 
house  in  her  life.  She  sometimes  stops  and  says  a 
word  or  two  as  she  goes  by  my  door.  But  she's 
grand,  and  1  hope  it's  a  mistake  —  what  they  say  — 
that  she  is  to  marry  Mr.  Stubs.  He's  too  good  for 
her,  I  think,  and  I'll  stick  to  it." 

I  shall  have  to  look  into  this  thing  a  little,  Mr.  Edi 
tor.  I  can't  say  how  true  it  is,  but  I  know  that  Stubs 
and  Pink  have  long  been  intimate,  and  strangely 
enough,  too,  for  their  natures  are  inharmonious.  His 
mission  is,  evidently,  to  suffer;  hers  (don't  mention 
it,  for  she  is  very  lovely  and  has  many  fine  points), 
just  as  evidently  to  make  others  suffer.  She  is  too 
thoughtless  and,  possibly,  heartless.  We  shall  see. 

But  I  must  have  done  and  —  fare  you  well !  Mean 
time,  in  these  dog  days,  the  sea,  and  the  stars  and  the 
sunsets  are  my  companions,  —  the  sea  chiefly.  What 
its  voices  utter,  what  the  music  of  the  stars  reveals 
to  my  soul,  I  cannot  quite  tell  you  as  yet.  Their 
language  is  vague  and  indistinct,  but  none  the  less 
appreciable.  I  seem  to  be  oppressed,  almost,  with  a 
sense  of  beauty  which  would  intoxicate  if  it  did  not 
subdue  ;  exhilarating  but  chastening.  Prig  is  evidently 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  29 

conscious  of  it,  and  undertook,  an  evening  or  two 
since,  to  tell  me  what  the  sea  said.  He  has  gotten  to 
be  a  fluent  talker,  and  is  beginning  to  exhibit  traits. 

The  sight  of  a  flower  or  a  star  will  hush  him  to 
peace,  when  he  is  most  boisterous  ;  —  which  is  a  good 
sign.  I  asked  him,  some  time  since,  who  made  a 
flower  he  held  in  his  hand.  "  Papa,"  was  his  reply. 
"Who?"  said  I  somewhat  solemnly.  "God,"  was 
his  answer,  —  and,  with  those  large,  inquiring  eyes  of 
his,  he  gazed  into  mine  in  a  most  interrogative  and 
searching  manner,  by  which  he  meant  "  will  you 
please  to  explain  ?  "  doubtless.  Explain  !  When  can 
I?  When  he  is  older  and  wiser?  Oh,  my  friend,  as 
he  grows  older,  and  I  plod  on,  will  he  grow  wiser 
from  teachings  such  as  mine,  or  will  a  still  small  voice, 
in  a  moment,  "  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,"  teach 
him  the  mystery  lifetimes  of  knowledge  getting, 
money  getting,  fame  getting,  and  Progress,  as  we  call 
it,  cannot  comprehend  ;  "  because  He  has  hid  these 
things  from  the  wise  and  prudent,  and  revealed  them 
unto  babes."  Bui,  how  I  preach  ! 

Your  comments  upon  the  radishes  as  compared  with 
Pink's  cheek,  were  excessively  shabby.  Why  not 
"  soft,  impressible,  yielding  ?  "  Take  a  young,  tender 
radish,  and  what  can  be  more  appropriate  than  to 
apply  all  of  these  epithets  to  it  —  with  some  few  grains 
of  salt? 

You  allege  that  a  cheek  is  "  soft "  and  a  radish 
"  hard  "  ;  but  don't  we  say  "  a  stiff  upper  lip,"  "  mar- 
He  forehead,"  "  beautifully  carved  features,  "  chiselled 
features,"  "  a  well  cut  nose,"  "  a  hard  faced  man  or 
woman,"  "  an  iron  look,"  "  a  stony  expression,"  and 


30  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

all  such  illegitimate  and  hard  things,  which  are  all 
correct  enough,  and  so  why  not  "  a  soft,  impressible 
radish,"  with  the  "  grains  of  salt,"  that  is  ? 

Ask  your  "smart"  subscriber  if  you  are  not  cor 
nered  ?  And  bid  him  hail  !  notwithstanding  my  serene 
and  excessively  polite  good-bye  to  him.  He  has  his 
good  points  after  all,  and  when  there  is  anything 
argumentative  or  "practical"  going  on,  we  need  him 
to  settle  the  question. 

As  to  a  woman's  cheek  being  "  yielding,  soft  and 
impressible,"  or  her  nature,  either,  I  have  not  much 
to  say  to  such  a  handsome  man  as  you.  Women, 
0  puer  carissime,  are  curious  creatures.  Beauty,  like 
yours,  will  not  conquer  them  —  always. 

"0  formose  puer,  nimium  ne  crede  colori." 

They  are  captivated  by  "  a  verie  smooth  and  plea 
sant  wit,"  like  that  of  Trifle.  You  can  procure  them 
to  like  you,  if  you  try,  but  it's  such  an  effort  to  try. 
You  may  say  4t  oh  vainest  of  Trifles,"  but  what  I  say 
is  true,  notwithstanding  it  be  also  true  that  the  love  of 
a  woman,  excepting  always  that  of  Pat.,  is  the  vainest 
of  trifles.  Pro  ex,  what  said  the  Dane  ? 

"  But  two  months  dead  !    Nay,  not  so  much,  not  two  ;  " 
and  then  again, 

"  Thrift,  thrift,  Horatio  ;  the  funeral  baked  meats  did  coldly 
furnish  forth  the  marriage  tables." 

I  think  so,  Hamlet,  most  decidedly !  You  had  a 
right  to  be  most  stupendously  indignant  about  it. 
"  What's  to  be  done  ? "  "  what's  to  be  done  ?  "  you 
asked  very  naturally,  but  I  never  could  make  out  that 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  31 

you  did  much.  The  fact  is,  Hamlet,  you  were  a 
great  talker,  and  that's  about  all.  You've  made  a 
good  many  tragedians,  though,  in  our  day,  but  a  little 
of  your  advice  wouldn't  hurt  'em.  "  Great  American 
Tragedians"  they  are,  most  of  'em. 

But,  Mr.  Editor,  this  letter  is  inconceivably  long. 
I  bequeath  to  you  the  spirit  and  influence  of  Trifleton 
House !  And,  if  you  were  a  woman,  I  would  kiss 
your  hands. 

Item.  I  sat  last  evening  reading  the  newspaper, 
and  throwing  it  down,  said,  "  Let  us  thank  God  for 
the  crops  and  the  harvest." 

"Amen,"  said  Stubs,  solemnly. 

"  Let  us  thank  God  for  Robert  Burns,  '  Lake  George,' 
4  Saratoga,'  and  '  Newport,'  "  ejaculated  Pink. 

"It  is  well,"  said  I,  platitudinizing  in  reply,  "to  be 
thankful  for  the  sources  of  our  amusement,  but  we 
ought  first  to  be  grateful  for  our  health,  food,  raiment, 
and  reason,  however  limited  they  be." 

"  So  I  think,"  said  Stubs. 

"  You  —  do  ?  "  inquired  Pink,  apparently  somewhat 
pointedly. 

"  Yes  !  and  I  not  only  think  so,  but  I  feel  so." 

"  Feel  !  What  preaching  !  What  do  I  know  of  feel- 
ing?"  (A  cloud  passed  over  his  face;  —  passed,  I 
say.) 

"  (Jr  care,"  said  I. 

Her  eye  flashed,  kindled  rather,  and  she  turned  its 
full  blaze  upon  me. 

"He  means,"  exclaimed  Pat.,  instantly,  "  that  you 
know  nothing  of  care,  because  you've  never  had 
any." 


32  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

Perhaps  I  did.  She  "  chucked  "  my  elegant  edition  of 
Burns,  which  cost  me  eight  dollars  and  a  half,  down 
upon  the  sofa,  in  a  most  sprawling  condition,  and 
rushing  up  to  Pat.,  hugged  her  and  kissed  her  (they 
are  old  friends  —  intimate  before  we  owned  Trifleton 
House)  in  the  most  ridiculous  and  passionate  manner, 
and  screaming  out  "  Good-bye  "  —  "  Come,"  was  off 
in  a  moment. 

Stubs  followed,  looking  very  foolish,  as  I  thought. 

Said  I,  "  Pat.,  if  I  had  the  training  of  her,  I'd " 

"You'd  what?" 

"  Pd  curb  her  and  conquer  her,  or " 

"  Get  conquered  yourself !  I've  no  doubt  of  it. 
Pink  is  much  spoiled,  but  I  by  no  means  despair  of 
her." 

The  man  with  the  morose  moustache,  and  the  corn- 
colored  gloves  has  not  yet  arrived,  but  is  expected. 
Pink  met  him  last  summer  at  Catskill,  and,  as  I  am  told, 
he  brings  letters  to  her  father.  His  income  is  "  ten 
thousand  a  year." 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  33 


IV. 


THE  ARM  CHAIR, 
Sirius  Ascendant. 

WE  suppose  we  are  in  duty  bound  to  acknowledge 
the  receipt  of  your — favor,  we  were  about  to  say  — 
but  we  mean  your  obedience  to  our  commands  in 
writing  us  another  letter,  most  docile  Trifle.  After 
the  manner  of  Trifleton  House  we  thank  you,  and  take 
off  our  hat  to  you  —  that  is,  we  should  do  the  latter 
thing,  but  our  arm  chair  tolerates  no  "  tile  "  in  its 
presence,  —  not  even  our  broad-brim  straw,  under  the 
shadow  of  which  we  watch  the  changes  of  naturer 
and  sometimes  muse  on  what  you  would  term  the 
"  glories  "  of  Trifleton  House,  but  what  to  us  seems 
to  be  its  mirth-provoking  ridiculousness,  to  wit,  its- 
garden  and  its  gardener.  We  thank  you,  notwith 
standing  the  supreme  conceit  which  almost  forbade 
your  compliance  with  our  command,  thou  "  vainest  of 
Trifles,"  truly. 
*But  thank  ye  for  what  ?  For  two  and  a  half  mortal 

columns    of ?       (We    won't   say   the    word   that 

comes  pat  in  that  place.)  Let  us  see  what  you  have 
done,  what  you  say.  First  an  address  to  the  cucum 
bers  !  There's  an  audience  for  you !  Prone  to  ad- 
rnire  and  communicate  with  grovelling,  procumbent, 
3 


34  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

creeping  things,  still,  are  you,  Trifle  ?  After  such  an 
address  to  such  an  audience,  it  is  very  delightful  to 
!hear  you  admonish  the  beans.  It  seems  you  can 
aspire  to  the  top  of  a  bean-pole  —  but  alas  !  for  the 
practical  results  of  your  aspirations  in  the  garden  of 
Trifleton  House.  Verily,  you  are  a  reformer,  Trifle  ; 
not  quite  so  fiercely  philanthropic  as  some  of  your 
class,  since  you  do  not  yet  take  the  world  for  your 
field,  but  eon-fine  yourself  to  your  —  you  call  it  "  a 
garden,"  don't  you  ?  Pray,  why  didn't  you  fix  your 
poles  for  those  creeping  and  crawling  cucumbers  to 
climb  upon  ?  Or  better,  why  have  you  not  chopped 
them  up  into  kindling  wood  ?  You  are  not  yet  so 
ethereal,  though  you  have  lived  six  weeks  in  the 
country,  as  not  to  need  a  fire  under  the  pot ;  —  pray 
put  the  poles  to  some  use,  and  let  them  not  stand  for 
ever  like  so  many  weird  and  giant  fingers  pointing  at 
your  disgraceful  ignorance.  Having  burnt  your  poles, 
apply  yourself  to  reform.  The  task  you  assume  is 
not  half  so  herculean  as  those  which  some  of  your  co- 
reformers  attempt.  Talk  to  your  beans,  —  bid  them 
climb  ;  they  —  or  we  —  shall  delight  in  your  elo 
quence,  at  least.  By-and-by,  when  Stubs  tells  you 
of  his  detectable  "  Limas,"  run  you  out  to  see  the 
fruits  of  your  preaching,  —  you  will  look  in  vain  for 
the  fruits  of  your  "  despondent  beans." 

Another  year,  if  your  life  is  spared,  possibly  you 
may  remember  that  mere  admonitions  are  not  very 
good  bean-poles.  There  are  plants,  as  there  are  hu 
man  souls,  which  will  surely  climb  heavenward,  if 
you  give  them  a  steady  staff.  They  must  grow  ;  their 
tender  shoots,  their  yearning  tendrils  will  reach  out 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  35 

and  clutch  at  weeds,  if  nothing  better  offer,  —  frail 
and  transient  supports  which  must  be  prostrated  by 
the  first  storm.  Shall  they  be  left  thus  to  be  cast 
down,  fruitless,  lost  forever  ?  Not  thus  has  the  good 
Gardener  left  us,  O  fellow-mortal.  Firm,  steady, 
heaven-high  staves  has  he  placed  all  about  us  ;  and  if 
we  will  stretch  out  our  hands,  and  wind  about  those 
unfailing  supports  with  never-untwining  tendrils,  we 
shall  grow  upward  into  the  pure  air  and  the  glorious 
sunlight. 

We  have  some  hopes  of  you,  most  fickle  Trifle,  in 
another  way.  Rural  life  is  evidently  exerting  a  hu 
manizing  influence  on  you,  and  you  have  arrived  at 
that  stage  when  you  can  at  times,  by  fits  and  starts, 
acknowledge  some  good  in  woman,  —  only  in  sucli 
cases  you  can't  look  beyond  the  amiable  Pat-  She 
didn't  have  any  such  narrow  notions.  Evidently  her 
generous  nature  is  a  compensation  (don't  you  believe 
in  compensations?)  for  Trifle's  conceit.  We  have  a 
higher  regard  for  her  opinion  than  for  yours  ;  for 
didn't  she  approve  of  what  we  said  ?  But  you  are 
not  altogether  hopeless  and  crusted  over  with  imper 
vious  self-conceit,  since  you  can  now  ask  "who  ever 
yet  knew  a  woman  to  be  mistaken  ?  "  There  you 
are  on  the  other  extreme,  —  the  golden  mean  seems 
impossible  with  you.  Doubtless  you  were  thinking, 
all  the  while,  of  Pat.,  and  how  many  times  she  had 
proved  you  to  be  mistaken  ;  and  you  forgot  all  about 
that  one  great  mistake  of  her  life,  her  choice  of  a 
husband. 

But  see  how  you  spoil  even  that  tribute  to  woman 
by  the  sorry  commonplace  of  all  vain  preachers  like 


36  TRIFLE-TON    PAPERS. 

yourself,  that  "  the  love  of  a  woman  is  the  vainest  of 
trifles."  To  be  sure  a  sort  of  instinctive  dread  of  con 
sequences  led  you  to  except  Pat. ;  otherwise  the  slan 
der  is  general.  And  you  quote  that  crazy  fellow, 
Hamlet,  in  support  of  your  lunatic  conceit.  What  did 
he  know  about  it  ?  He  was  indeed  a  great  talker,  as 
you  say,  but  he  didn't  therefore  know  much  about  it. 
The  great  question  with  him  was 

"  To  be  or  not  to  be." 

A  very  serious  question,  truly  ;  but  if  he  had  been  a 
sane,  practical  man,  he  need  not  have  made  such  a 
fuss  about  it,  exclaiming 

"  What  should  such  fellows  as  I  do  crawling  between  earth  and 
heaven  ! " 

He  might  have  settled  it  all  "  with  a  bare  bodkin." 
Moreover,  he  behaved  very  shabbily  towards  Ophelia, 
who  also  went  mad,  for  love  of  him,  and  showing  more 
"  pluck"  than  he  could  muster  with  all  his  u  stale,  flat 
and  unprofitable  "  talk,  went  and  drowned  herself. 
Was  her  love  "  the  vainest  of  trifles  ?  "  How  was  it, 
too,  with  Imogen  and  Juliet,  Portia  and  Rosalind  ?  — 
not  to  go  any  farther  in  the  records  of  that  true  reader 
of  human  life. 

Turning  again  to  your  letter,  we  know  not  which 
most  to  admire,  the  audacity  with  which  you  presume 
to  lecture  our  "  smart  subscriber  "  and  the  "  exuberant 
Miss  of  nineteen  summers,"  or  the  verdancy  with 
which  you  seem  to  suppose  that  they  will  read  what 
you  say.  Possibly  we  may  have  such  a  "  smart  sub 
scriber  "  as  you  assume,  but  the  genial  influences  of 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  37 

our  journal  preclude  the  possibility  of  there  being  such 
an  individual  among  our  readers.  If  there  were,  think 
you  he  would  read  your  lucubrations  ?  He  must  read 
the  price  of  stocks,  look  over  the  arrivals,  study  the 
importations,  run  through  the  advertisements,  to  find 
out  where  and  how  money  can  be  made.  For  amuse 
ment  he  will  look  at  the  reports  of  the  crops,  read  the 
details  of  the  last  defalcation,  or  glance  at  the  accounts 
of  carnage  before  Sebastopol,  all  which  may  directly 
or  indirectly  affect  the  figures  on  his  ledger.  He  read 
your  unpractical,  thriftless,  useless  stuff!  Not  he, — 
least  of  all  when  you  talk  to  him,  and  at  him,  and  all 
about  him,  individually.  You  think  you  find  a  "great 
aching  void  "  in  his  heart,  but  when  you  tell  him  so 
he  covers  it  all  over  with  the  hard  crust  of  money- 
making  worldliness,  so  that  there  is  no  crack  or 
crevice  through  which  your  soft  words,  your  goodly 
counsels  or  your  sharp  admonitions  can  penetrate 
into  the  mysterious  chambers  which  he  so  sedulously 
closes  and  locks  up,  as  he  is  wont  to  lock  up  his  gold 
or  his  bills  receivable.  And  so  you  waste  your  long 
paragraphs  on  him,  until  he  shall  seek  that  rest  and 
retirement  which  you  prescribe  for  him,  —  and  that 
will  be,  when  no  more  money  is  to  be  made,  when 
bowed  down  with  disease,  or  the  weight  of  his  money 
bags,  he  totters  down  to  the  grave.  So  plod  on  the 
class  of  which  he  is  the  type  ;  let  us  hope  for  some  at 
least,  an  earlier  and  a  better  rest. 

And  the  "  exuberant  Miss,"  will  she  read  your  plati 
tudes  ?  She  looks  at  the  catalogue  of  marriages  — 
still  sighing  for  that  morose  moustache  which  totters 
about  on  spindle  shanks,  —  or  she  reads  perhaps  a  gos- 


38  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

siping  letter  about  the  "  hops  "  at  Nahant,  or  the  pros 
pective  fancy  ball  at  Newport,  or  the  brilliant  company 
at  Saratoga.  Possibly  her  eye  might  be  caught  by 
some  of  the  words  in  that  long  paragraph  addressed  to 
her,  but  fairly  into  it,  she'll  toss  her  pretty  head  one 
way  and  your  letter  the  other, —  Trifleton  may  sink, 
and  Stubs  be  hanged,  for  all  she  cares,  —  she  has 
more  congenial  pursuits.  But  as  you  say,  Trifle,  she 
will  in  time  discover  the  reality  of  life  ;  love,  care, 
sorrow,  shall  teach  her  better  lessons  than  you  can. 

But  do  not  despair,  O  simple  and  verdant  friend,  for 
there  are  those  who  will  read  even  what  you  and  we 
may  say,  in  our  simple  way,  about  very  simple  things. 
They  are  few,  perhaps,  —  the  more  unfortunate  the 
world,  therefore,  —  but  pleasant,  intelligent,  genial 
men  and  women  do  exist  somewhere,  and  it  is,  of 
course,  your  mission  to  find  them  out. 

How  excessively  full  of  conceit  is  this  last  letter  of 
yours  !  We  thought  we  had  disposed  of  it  all,  but  lo, 
here  you  ask  if  we  are  not  "  cornered  "  on  that  radish 
business.  Appeal  not  to  our  "  smart  subscriber; "  ask 
rather  the  brilliant  Pink,  if  a  cold,  crisp,  watery  rad 
ish  is  the  type  of  her  warm,  soft,  impressible  cheek, 
and  the  flash  of  her  eye  will  doubtless  render  your 
comparison  odious,  even  to  yourself — which,  we  be 
lieve,  is  already  the  case,  since  you  are  so  anxious  to 
have  it  taken  cum  grano.  And  then  again  you  boast 
of  that  "  verie  smooth  and  pleasant  wit,"  with  which 
you  can  captivate  women  !  Your  assurance  must  be 
really  charming  to  Pat.  and  Pink,  and  all  the  other 
feminine  friends  who  know  you  so  well.  This  leads 
you  quite  naturally  to  woman's  love,  which  we  have 
already  noted.  And  so  let  us  end  our  comments. 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  39 

Did  you  note  with  a  white  mark  on  the  Calendar, 
Friday  the  3d  of  August,  in  this  blessed  year  of  '55, 
that  bright,  effulgent  day,  the  crowning  glory  of  these 
summer  months  ?  Did  not  Trifleton  assume  a  new 
beauty  in  that  clear  air  and  golden  sunlight  ?  Did  not 
the  foliage  wave  with  a  brighter  green,  and  the  corn, 
the  squashes,  the  cucumbers  even,  give  visible  tokens 
of  delight?  Had  your  boyhood  been  passed  amid 
rural  beauties  instead  of  in  the  hard,  dry,  stony  town, 
you  would  have  found  much  in  such  a  day  to  recall 
the  far  off  joys  of  those  careless  and  unweary  days. 
You  might  have  sprawled  your  manly  length  upon  the 
grass,  and  gazed  up  into  those  measureless  depths  of 
blue,  anon  driving  the  fleecy  clouds  like  chariots  over 
the  trackless  way,  or  closing  your  eye  to  listen  to  the 
mysterious  music  which  the  winds  and  the  leaves  sing 
together,  —  dreaming  dreams  of  wild  ambition,  yet 
full  of  the  dole e  far  niente  spirit  (or  want  of  spirit),  so 
congenial  to  your  feelings,  —  all  as  you  would  have 
done  when  a  boy,  on  some  such  resplendent  day,  had 
you  then  been  a  rustic.  But,  poor  unfortunate,  all  this 
is  lost  to  you,  as  well  as  the  deeper,  sweeter  joys  of 
maturer  thought  with  such  antecedents.  Ay,  you  are 
lost,  yourself,  in  the  mysteries  of  many-voiced  nature  ; 
—  bewildered  with  her  beauty  and  her  music,  you 
wander  about  almost  unhappy  under  the  oppression  of 
vague,  indistinct,  unappreciated  ideas.  Is  it  not  so,  O 
Trifle?  —  or  have  you  crossed  the  threshold  into  the 
calm,  holy  light  of  a  close  communion  with  nature  ? 

It  was  on  the  eve  of  that  superlative  day  that  we 
watched  from  the  hill-side  the  brilliant  sunset,  gor 
geous  with  crimson  and  golden  clouds,  and  saw  the 


40  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

purple  twilight  steal  over  the  landscape  as  if  to  bathe 
it  in  beauty  more  complete,  while  the  little  stream 
winding  far  below  in  the  valley,  awhile  so  bright  under 
the  shining  clouds,  gradually  disappeared  beneath  the 
mist  which  (mysteriously)  gathered  over  it.  From  the 
dark  sea  the  shadow  of  the  horizon  stole  slowly  up 
the  Eastern  sky,  as  shadows  at  the  close  of  life  steal 
over  the  scenes  and  memories  of  youth.  Ah  !  what  a 
time  and  scene  for  impressions  and  thoughts;  and  we 
were  launching  out  upon  the  limitless  ocean,  when 
Madame  Hard  and  her  son  came  by. 

Madame  Hard  is  a  widow,  wealthy,  cold,  practical 
and  commonplace  ;  her  son  is  —  a  mystery  to  most 
people.  Once  —  and  now  at  times  —  ardent,  enthu 
siastic,  poetical,  he  becomes  more  and  more  cold, 
gloomy,  misanthropic  even.  Some  three  or  four  years 
out  of  college,  talented,  rich  and  good-looking,  (all 
but  his  moody  expression,)  why  should  such  a  fellow 
get  into  such  state  ?  We  shall  try  and  fathom  it,  by- 
and-by,  Trifle,  if  you  and  Mrs.  Trifle  would  like  to 
hear  the  gossip. 

"  A  fine  sunset,"  said  Madame  Hard. 

We  expatiated  on  the  beauties  of  the  scene — earth, 
sea  and  air. 

"  Very  red  clouds,"  remarked  Madame,  in  reply  ; 
"  we  shall  probably  have  rain  again  to-morrow,  and 
we  must  go  to  Newport." 

Our  words  had  all  passed  for  nothing ;  beauty, 
glory,  splendor,  loveliness,  peace,  serene,  holy,  —  the 
whole  vocabulary  had  been  wasted,  and  we  should 
probably  have  rain  again  to-morrow !  That  is  the 
way  to  look  upon  clouds  and  sunsets.  None  of  your 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  41 

poetry,  none  of  your  artist-talk ;  —  what  is  that  to  the 
weather  ?  or  to  Mrs.  Hard  ? 

Young  Hard  —  his  name  is  Abel,  after  his  father  — 
was  all  the  while  absorbed  in  the  beauties  of  the  even 
ing,  but  said  nothing.  At  the  sound  of  "  Newport," 
he  incontinently  started,  and  passed  on  with  a  half- 
haughty  bow,  saying  to  his  mother,  "  Tt  is  very  damp," 
which  was  all-sufficient  to  hurry  her  home.  Damp  ? 
ay,  it  is  damp,  and  Mrs.  Hard  gathers  her  shawl  about 
her ;  but  there  seems  to  be  a  greater  dampness  about 
the  heart  of  Abel ;  and  so  they  leave  the  twilight  to 
us. 

But  more  of  this  anon.  Setting  a  proper  example 
to  correspondents,  it  becomes  us  to  cut  short  our  let 
ters.  And  so,  with  all  blessings  to  Trifleton  House, 
vale. 

P.  S.  Shrimp's  premium  potatoes  are  prostrated 
by  the  wind  and  rain  (he  glories  in  the  tops,  you 
know,  not  the  tubers),  while  he  is  absent,  studying 
ichthyology. 


42  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 


V. 


TRIFLETON  HOUSE, 
Still  in  the  Dog  Days. 

A  CALAMITY  has  befallen  us;  —  sharp,  sudden  and 
severe.  It  touches  Prig  more  nearly  than  the  rest  of 
us,  but  still  we  are  all  in  tears. 

Little  Buff-y  is  dead  !  Do  you  hear  ?  —  dead  !  He 
was  quite  unwell  yesterday.  His  vivacity  seemed  to 
be  gone,  and  he  drooped  palpably.  He  leaned  his 
head  against  my  hand,  when  I  went  to  bid  him  good 
morning,  in  a  manner  that  impressed  and  touched  me ; 
for  what  being,  human  or  brute,  ever  indicated  any 
interest  in  me, —  ever  yearned  for  my  sympathy,  and 
appealed  to  my  affection,  without  a  response  ?  I  sym 
pathized  with  him,  and  gave  him  some  water  and 
clover  and  catnip.  But  he  drank  and  ate  but  little. 
He  seemed  grateful,  however,  and  repeatedly  kissed 
my  hand,  (which  you  remember  Pat.  says  is  a  good 
looking  one.)  Prig  was  much  concerned  about  him, 
but  I  consoled  him  with,  "  He'll  be  better  to-morrow." 

So  this  morning,  after  breakfast,  which  consisted  of 
the  richest  coffee  you  ever  tasted,  with  cream,  —  fried 
potatoes,  —  cucumbers  (sliced  in  pieces  of  ice)  of  my 
own  raising,  —  rough,  unbolted  wheat  bread,  with  Ver 
mont  butter,  —  corn  bread  (Pat.'s  weakness  from  the 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  43 

South  —  the  only  "  cliivdlric  "  notion  I  have  n't  talked 
her  out  of  since  she  crossed  Mason  and  Dixon's  line, 
for  Yankee  land  and  a  life  with  me),  and  various  other 
small  trifles,  too  numerous  to  mention,  I  rushed  into 
the  garden,  and  looking  into  his  pen,  or  cage,  or  what 
not,  I  saw  BufF-y  lying  down,  his  eyes  wide  open  and 
his  head  resting  upon  the  floor !  and  looking  very 
weary  and  very  sick.  I  sallied  instantly  towards  the 
cellar  for  some  dry  straw.  It  was  from  a  basket  of 
silver  tops  that  I  obtained  it.  Returning  with  it,  and 
putting  my  hand  gently,  and  oh!  how  tenderly,  into 
the  cage,  past  White-y  upon  BufF-y,  a  little,  to  raise 
him,  in  order  to  put  the  nice,  clean  straw  under  him, 
—  a  cold  chill  ran  over  me.  He  was  stark !  With 
the  tears  streaming  from  my  eyes,  I  ran  up  to  Prig, 
who  was  not  yet  out  of  his  new  trundle  bed,  but  was 
waiting  for  his  "  Mary." 

"  Prig,"  said  I,  "  poor  little  Buff-y  is  dead  ! !  !  !  " 

Prig  was  dumb.  He  was  stupefied.  He  was  like 
Lot's  wife. 

I  will  not  wring  your  heart,  by  recounting  the 
details  of  our  mourning.  It  is  enough  that  we  are 
miserable. 

An  early  hour  was  appointed  for  his  burial.  I 
will  strive  —  of  course  vainly  —  to  describe  it  to  you. 
The  place  was  under  the  great  apple  tree,  in  the 
northwest  corner  of  the  garden  ;  the  time,  towards 
eleven  o'clock,  which,  for  once,  caused  me  to  take 
an  excessively  light  glass  of  claret  and  water,  as  a 
tonic, —  as  a  medicine,  you  will  understand,  to  my 
grief. 

The  great  staring  sun  looked  down  upon  the  pro- 


44  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

cession  with  a  sort  of  knowing  look,  which  seemed  to 
say,  I've  seen  a  good  many  things  in  my  day,  and  I've 
been  looking  pretty  sharply  for  a  few  thousand  years, 
but  by  Jupiter  and  Saturn,  and  several  signs  of  the 
zodiac,  I  never  did  see  anything  quite  so  dire  and 
awful  as  this.  There's  Prig !  he's  chief  mourner, 
probably,  for  he  heads  the  ranks,  and  his  tears  are 
genuine.  I'll  not  dry  them  up.  I'll  go  into  a  cloud 
as  he  passes,  for  a  child's  grief  is  a  sacred  thing  in  its 
way,  and  is  to  be  respected.  Let  his  tears  flow  ! 
Next  comes  Trifle.  He  indicates  that  he  has  suffered, 
but  he  looks  better  and  wiser  and  happier  for  it.  I'll 
shine  on  him,  for  he  needs  sunshine  and  warmth.  All 
bright  things  please  and  encourage  him.  His  nature  is 
already  too  melancholy.  Hence  his  tears  would  better 
not  flow.  (I  stopped  crying  at  this  point.)  Last  comes 
Pat.,  the  most  faithful  and  constant  of  all.  For,  even 
as  the  wife  of  the  lamented  Rogers,  she  comes  "  with 
one  at  the  breast,"  following  hard  upon  the  footsteps 
of  Trifle,  like  a  dutiful  and  affectionate  wife.  So  walk 
through  life  together,  united  by  a  common  tie  of  love  ; 
close  together,  in  joy  and  in  grief,  in  despondency 
and  hope.  Father,  mother,  child  !  O  family  relation 
ship,  sympathy,  love  !  In  all  I  have  seen  these 
thousands  of  years,  1  have  gazed  upon  nothing  more 
beautiful.  It  is  pure  and  unselfish,  and  likest  that 
which  subsists  in  Heaven. 

We  came  to  the  grave,  we  —  (it's  too  painful)  we  — 
buried  Buff-y.  I  pronounced  a  succinct  eulogy.  I 
did  as  the  tombstones  do,  and  the  orators  when  a  great 
man  dies  —  I  paraded  his  virtues  most  skilfully  and 
artfully  concealed  his  faults.  I  did  it  in  the  most  adroit 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  45 

manner.  I  made  everybody  think  he  was  a  perfect 
pink  of  a  rabbit.  Not  a  word  said  I  of  his  shabby 
thieving  in  my  beet  bed,  —  not  I.  Oh,  it  was  most 
cunningly  done  ! 

But,  no  doubt,  you  are  bursting  to  hear  whether 
the  man  with  the  corn-colored  gloves  has  come.  I 
judge  so  from  the  fact  that  you  said  nothing  about 
him  in  your  letter,  for  I  have  always  observed  that  in 
the  imperfect  life  we  illustrate  in  this  slight  world,  that 
people  say  the  least  in  regard  to  what  they  think  of 
most.  Humanity  is  secretive,  and  candor  is  a  rare 
trait. 

"  When  will  man  learn  to  bear 
His  heart  nailed  on  his  breast?  " 

Sure  enough,  most  lamented,  most  tender,  plaintive 
Motherwell !  As  Pink  says,  the  world  should  be 
grateful  for  thy  life,  though  it  was  indeed  a  life  of  suf 
fering.  Except  for  it,  we  should  never  have  had 
"  Jeanie  Morrison." 

It  is  undoubtedly  true,  however,  that  "  he  has 
come."  The  last  three  words  you  perceive  are  in 
quotation  marks.  T  seek  to  indicate,  thereby,  that  they 
are  not  original,  but  are  borrowed.  They  belong  to 
Pink.  She  uttered  them  in  a  most  bewildered  and 
excited  manner  to  Pat.,  and  the  latter  reiterated  them 
to  me  several  times,  so  that  they  are,  in  fact,  become 
rather  old,  and  deserve  the  quotation  marks.  I  trust 
you  will  receive  them  calmly,  and  with  a  becoming 
degree  of  moderation. 

The  distinguished  individual  went  on  a  sailing  excur 
sion  with  us,  for  you  must  know  that,  of  late,  we  have 


46  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

been  much  addicted  to  the  ocean  in  one  way  or 
another.  We  bathe,  and  sail,  and  even  fish  in  the 
most  human  fashion. 

Upon  the  occasion  I  have  referred  to,  the  day  came 
in  with  a  glory  unsurpassable.  Astounding  as  the  fact 
may  seem,  I  saw  the  sun  rise.  A  dark,  purple  line 
marked  the  eastern  horizon,  above  which  I  saw  him 
slowly  rising,  and  looking  stealthily  around.  He  was 
so  cautious,  on  the  start,  that  I  thought  he  lacked 
pluck.  But  as  he  gazed  over  the  water,  and  looked 
upwards  upon  the  mountains  of  frowning  maroon 
clouds,  piled  like  Ossa  upon  Pelion  over  his  head,  as 
if  to  break  him  down,  a  ray  of  peculiar  satisfaction,  as 
it  seemed  to  me,  which  gradually  developed  into  a 
look  of  proud  defiance,  almost,  indicated  that  he  was 
ready  for  the  conflict.  He  came  out  of  it  triumphantly. 
For  he  made  the  sea  leap  and  sparkle  before  him  ;  — 
and  he  dissipated  the  frowns  of  the  angry  clouds,  and 
converted  them  into  smiles.  Blessed  be  the  sunshine 
forever,  and  all  warm  and  sunny  natures  in  a  world  like 
this  !  They  make  our  pulses  leap  and  our  hearts  beat ; 
they  kindle  our  courage,  and  dry  our  tears.  We  can 
struggle  with  obstacles;  we  can  possibly  conquer  diffi 
culties,  and  fight  against  all  dark  and  gloomy  things 
valiantly.  But  gentle,  warm,  affectionate  natures  sub 
due  us,  and  soften  and  harmonize  us  all.  God  knows, 
however,  that  they  are  rare. 

The  day,  I  said,  was  beautiful  and  bright ;  and  so 
was  Pink.  Pat.,  in  her  simplicity,  of  course  admired 
everything.  None  but  "  cultivated "  people  find 
fault. 

I  cannot  quite  say  I  was  as   much  bedazzled   by 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  47 

u  him  "  as  I  expected  to  be.  Coming  from  New  York 
city,  you  perceive,  with  the  prestige  of  having  been 
pronounced  "  a  great  match,"  —  having  summered  at 
Newport  and  wintered  at  Paris  so  long,  I  was  prepared 
for  great  things  ;  but,  between  you  and  me,  he  was  of 
the  same  race  we  have  seen  so  many  of.  He  talked  a 
great  deal,  but  really  said  nothing,  Stubs  evidently 
thought.  Repeatedly,  a  few  quiet  and  polite  words 
from  Stubs  exposed  the  shallowness  of  many  of  his 
opinions,  which  he  vouchsafed  in  a  decidedly  "  trav 
elled  "  style.  The  clever  wit  of  Pink,  however,  made 
him  shine  by  a  reflected  light  occasionally.  He  was 
her  father's  guest,  and  she  probably  felt  bound  to 
pick  him  up  when  he  stumbled.  He  had  never  read 
"  Evangeline,"  and  (incredible  as  it  may  seem)  was 
perfectly  innocent  of  Motherwell.  He  could  n't  see 
the  force  of  the  "  Potiphar  Papers,"  any  more  than 
he  could  see  the  peculiar  expression  in  Pink's  eye,  or 
on  Stubs'  face.  —  One  thing  I  must  tell  you.  He  said 
he  thought  it  extremely  funny  that  I,  myself,  worked 
in  my  own  garden,  and  asked  if  it  were  true  ;  at 
which  Stubs  very  groutily  remarked,  in  my  behalf 
entirely, —  for  he  would  not  have  been  so  impolite 
himself,  — 

"  The  true  occupation  of  man  is  to  till  the  soil, 
doubtless.  Nothing  can  be  more  gratifying  than  to 
see  before  our  eyes  that  which  has  been  produced 
from  the  earth  by  the  labor  of  our  own  hands,  with 
the  accession  of  the  rain  and  the  sunshine,  which  are 
God's  gifts.  It  is  an  occupation  which  is  dignified 
and  purifying,  and  one  calculated  to  draw  out  and 
develope  the  resources,  generally,  of  our  country. 


4  TRIFLETON    PAPEKS. 

look  forward  to  the  day  when  we  shall  be  known  and 
distinguished  as  an  agricultural  people,  almost  exclu 
sively." 

He  relapsed  into  silence,  and  Pink's  eye  kindled. 
She  thought  him  too  real,  too  good,  too  open,  per 
haps.  But  this  may  be  merely  my  fancy.  I  have 
observed  often  enough,  however,  that  the  thoughts  of 
a  true  man,  feelingly  expressed,  are  quite  wasted,  or, 
at  least,  are  inopportune,  in  the  society  of  what  are 
called  i;  young  people  "  of  our  dav  —  particularly  of 
the  feminine  gender.  Indeed,  feeling,  away  from  home, 
is  rather  a  practical  absurdity  than  otherwise.  In  any 
sense,  it's  a  commodity  of  somewhat  questionable  value. 

\Ve  left  our  vessel  about  noon,  and  landed  on  an 
island  beautifully  situated  in  mid  ocean.  I  wan 
dered  away  from  our  party,  and  stretched  myself  at 
full  length  upon  the  grass.  I  shall  never  forget  the 
sensations  of  that  hour.  On  every  side  around  me 
was  the  broad  Atlantic  ;  above  me  the  cloudless  sky  ; 
and  stealing  over  me,  the  delicious  summer  air, — 
bewildering  my  senses,  and  addressing  the  better  part 
of  my  nature.  I  mused,  and  then  I  slept.  I  dreamed 
I  was  in  a  sort  of  fairy  land.  Paradise  was  unfolded 
before  me.  There  were  pure  sunlights,  without 
clouds:  gorgeous  birds;  singing  fountains;  peaceful 
and  serene  hill-sides  and  valleys ;  —  all  that  was 
beautiful,  nothing  that  was  sad.  I  said  to  my  soul, 
"  Is  this  heaven  ?  "  My  soul  answered  palpably  (as 
I  dreamed)  and  somewhat  reproachfully,  "  Heaven 
is  of  the  spirit,  and  addresses  not  the  senses.  Heaven 
is  home  ;  —  is  with  Christ  who  has  suffered  and  con 
quered  ;  —  is  a  cessation  of  yearning  and  longing;  is 
—  rest!" 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  49 

Presently  the  cry  that  the  chowder  was  ready 
brought  me  back  to  this  practical  and  bread  and  but 
ter  eating  world.  I  was  rallied  upon  being  a  sleepy 
head.  Perhaps  I  was.  I  said  nothing,  but  quietly 
laughed  in  my  sleeve.  1  felt  purified  and  refreshed 
by  my  thoughts  and  my  dreams,  but  I  ate  chowder, 
and  said  nothing.  One  of  the  objects  in  life  is  to  eat 
chowder,  doubtless. 

I  have  to  record  this  item.  Most  of  the  time,  Pink 
was  generous,  sincere,  and  extremely  clever,  —  as 
why  should  she  not  be  with  her  talents  ?  She  be 
haved,  mostly,  extremely  well.  Stubs  was  openly 
and  palpably  proud  of  her,  for  he  reflected,  as  I  rather 
think,  that  she  had  often  told  him  that  she  loved  him, 
but,  as  we  landed  from  our  boat,  the  same  wagon,  with 
the  yellow-colored  wheels,  which  we  thought  so  ridic 
ulous  at  Newport,  you  remember,  (we  didn't  know  it 
was  "  his  "  then,)  appeared  at  the  landing,  and  to  rny 
utter  astonishment  and  disgust,  (to  say  nothing  of 
Stubs,)  Pink,  with  a  real  look  of  gratification,  entered 
it  with  him  and  rode  home,  tossing  a  kiss  from  her 
glove  to  Stubs.  It  was  not  so  much  the  incident  as 
the  manner  of  it  that  startled  me.  I  saw  a  cloud 
come  over  his  face.  He  was  evidently  hurt ;  —  ex 
tremely  hurt.  He  never  seemed  so  near  to  me  as 
then.  I  could  have  hugged  him  to  rny  heart,  — 
have  clasped  him  to  my  soul.  A  noble  nature, 
wounded  by  the  thoughtlessness  or  caprice  of  a 
woman,  always  provokes  my  sympathy.  However, 
I  should  never  thopght  of  daring  to  sympathize,  un 
asked,  with  Stubs.  He  is  too  proud  for  such  a  fami 
liarity.  But  enough  of  this. 
4 


50  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

Let  me  see.     It  is  thus  you  write  to  me  : 
"  Did  you  note  with  a  white  mark  on  the  Calendar,  Friday, 
the  3d  of  August,  in  this  blessed  year  of  '55,  that  bright,  efful 
gent  day  ?  " 

Of  course  I  did  ;  —  for  upon  that  day,  as  my  mother 

says,  I   was  —  (yes,  you   are  right,)  years  old. 

To  consider  that  I  have  lived  so  long,  and  accom 
plished  so  little,  is  anything  but  flattering  to  myself. 
Arid  yet,  serenest  of  editors,  I  have  no  desire  to  go 
back.  I'm  not  a  day  or  an  hour  too  old,  nor  should  I 
be  if  I  were  ninety.  I  cannot  quite  appreciate  this 
common  dread  of  growing  old.  While  we  are  grow 
ing  on,  are  we  not  ripening,  —  I  would  like  to  know, 
—  maturing,  culminating?  Else,  are  we  in  the 
wrong  path  !  Won't  you  please  to  inform  me  why 
we  should  live  here. — the  object  of  it,  that  is,  unless 
it  be  to  become  pure,  and  raise  beans  and  cucumbers, 
and  potatoes  and  corn,  as  we  do  at  Trifleton  House? 
Except  to  do  this  sort  of  thing,  and  educate  ourselves, 
life  is  quite  a  farce. 

If  so  be  we  can  only  reach  heaven,  and  wear  white 
robes,  and  walk  those  streets  with  harps  in  our  hands, 
what  matter  how  old  we  grow.  Growing  old  is  coming 
to  the  test ;  —  is  —  not  flinching  from  the  judgment; 
is  tempting  eternity  ;  is  looking  (or  ought  to  be)  to  the 
time  when  we  shall  be  burdened  by  no  sorrows,  per 
plexed  by  no  anxieties,  worried  by  no  hunger  for 
bread,  and  wealth,  and  power  ;  and  distressed  by  no 
thirst  for  human  love  —  for  fame  — for  victory  over 
ourselves.  It  is  a  loooking  forward  to  a  true  social 
ism,  where  the  small  frettings  we  are  subjected  to,  in 
what  we  call  society,  shall  be  forever  done  away. 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  51 

Hail  !  hail  to  such  a  Thule  !  No,  serenest  and  most 
dear  friend,  as  well  as  editor,  not  a  Thule  !  It  is  near; 
—  but  a  few  years  of  toil  away  at  best.  Let  us  thank 
God,  take  courage,  and  hasten  on  !  Let  us  cheerfully, 
and  trustfully,  and  with  a  good  degree  of  humility, 
grow  old. 

Most  kindred  and  genial  of  friends,  and  placidest 
of  all  editors,  unless  you  wish  to  be  preached  to, 
don't  stir  up  my  birth-day  again.  Let  us  hear  more 
of  Hard.  Pat.  is  curious  on  his  account,  which  is 
remarkable,  as  you  know  women  are  seldom  curious. 

Trifle's  continuous  remembrance  to  Mrs.  Editor, 
and  the  incipients. 


52  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 


VI. 


THE  ARM  CHAIR, 
As  the  Summer  Wanes. 

TRULY,  O  fickle  Trifle,  in  spite  of  your  idiosyncracy, 
you  are  like  the  rest  of  the  world.  You  are  loud  .in 
your  lamentation  over  a  deceased  rabbit,  but  even  in 
the  midst  of  your  grief,  lo !  that  vanity,  which  extends 
even  to  the  tip  of  your  fingers,  must  find  a  parentheti 
cal  expression.  Your  sorrow  is  minutely  described, 
and  so  is  your  breakfast.  The  last  sickness  of  BufF-y 
is  affecting  to  your  wonderfully  tender  heart,  but  you 
don't  forget  the  silver-tops- in  your  cellar  ;  and  as  you 
go  out  to  perform  the  last  rites,  you  cannot  omit  the 
indulgence  of  that  "  eleven  o'clock"  habit  which  you 
acquired  in  your  city  life. 

And  behold  how  quickly  your  grief  is  forgotten  in 
that  all-important  announcement  that  u  he  has  come," 
he,  the  wearer  of  the  "  corn-colored  gloves,"  and  the 
owner  of  the  wagon  with  "  yellow  wheels."  Thus 
are  old  friends  forgotten  in  the  novelties  of  the  world. 
But  we  had  hoped  better  things  of  you  under  the  influ 
ence  of  rural  life.  In  the  busy  din  of  the  city,  where 
things  come  and  go,  and  are  forgotten  ere  they  are 
fairly  gone  ;  where  men  die  and  their  places  are 
so  quickly  occupied  that  they  are  not  missed  ;  where 
change  comes  so  closely  following  change  that  man 


TR1FLETON    PAPERS.  53 

knows  not  the  past ;  the  heart  may  become  a  mere 
kaleidoscope,  or  at  best  a  camera,  reflecting  the  pres 
ent  only.  But  in  the  country,  amid  the  everlasting 
hills,  or  by  the  ocean's  ceaseless  roar  ;  where  nature 
passes  through  her  changes  only  to  return  us  each  in 
its  immutable  succession ;  where  the  oak  attains  its 
growth  in  a  century,  and  generations  repose  under  its 
shade ;  where  man's  works  are  accessory  only  to  the 
works  of  God  ;  where  the  benign  sun  shines  ever  the 
same  on  foliage,  blossom  and  fruil,  and  the  same  mys 
terious  voices  are  whispering  £ver ;  the  heart  may, 
should,  must  become  more  steady  and  unchanging,  — 
faithful  still  to  the  memories  of  the  lost,  which  are  not 
chased  away  by  hasty  and  inane  successors.  Live  on, 
and  nature  shall  in  time  conquer  you,  and  adopt  you 
as  her  child. 

But  to  return  to  that  breakfast  table,  —  you  can  have 
no  objection  to  that,  since  it  is  a  pleasure  to  you  even 
to  enumerate  the  edibles.  Behold  what  a  breakfast  for 
a  countryman  !  "  The  richest  coffee  you  ever  tasted, 
with  cream."  How  know  you  that  ?  Haven't  we  in 
dulged  in  the  fragrant  Mocha  ?  Not  often,  to  be  sure, 
for  it  is  one  of  the  luxuries  that  come  not  to  the  frugal 
table,  but  then  we  have  "  dined  out."  As  for  the 
cream,  you  seem  to  think  that  a  novelty,  and  doubtless 
it  is  to  city  folk  like  you.  But  why  do  you  drink  cof 
fee  ?  Is  there  no  crystal  spring,  no  well,  at  Trifleton  ? 
The  pure  element  which  God  has  given  you,  —  why 
do  you  not  drink  that,  the  clear,  refreshing,  invigorat 
ing  beverage  of  nature  ?  Will  you  not  cast  away 
your  Mocha  and  your  Java,  your  silver-tops  and  your 
claret,  and  follow  the  example  of  the  hermit  of  Wai- 
den  Pond  ? 


54  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

"  Fried  potatoes."  Well,  that  sounds  rural,  but 
you  get  your  idea  of  fried  potatoes  at  Young's  or  Par 
ker's  ;  they  are  not  country  fried  potatoes.  "  Cucum 
bers  (sliced  in  pieces  of  ice)  of  my  own  raising." 
That  seems  a  little  like  living  in  the  country,  eating 
the  fruit  of  your  own  (cucumber)  vine.  But  then  such 
fruit, —  bah!  couldn't  you  put  the  ice  to  better  use? 
"  Rough,  unbolted  wheat  bread,  with  Vermont  butter." 
The  bread  is  good  for  you,  and  we  approve  your  taste 
there,  but  do  you  go  to  Vermont  for  butter  ?  Are  there 
no  Ayreshire  or  Devonshire  kine  in  your  vicinity,  who 
fill  the  foaming  pail  and  eke  the  churn  ?  Are  there 
no  rosy-faced  dairymaids  whose  plump  hands  can 
form  those  tempting  lumps  of  sweet,  fresh  butter, 
stamped  with  roses  ? 

"  Corn  bread."  That  you  would  like  to  dispense 
with,  and  you  would  fain  persuade  the  sensible  Pat. 
to  give  up  her  taste  for  yours,  selfish  fellow  !  (By 
the  way,  have  you  any  green  corn  —  soft,  tender, 
delicious  sweet  corn  in  your  garden  ?)  But  she  is 
right.  Corn  bread  —  beautiful  in  its  golden  color, 
light,  sweet,  nutritious  —  that  is  a  dish  to  grace  a  rural 
breakfast  table,  to  satisfy  a  rural  appetite  and  please  a 
rural  palate.  A  cliivalric  notion,  indeed  !  A  chivalric 
regard  for  your  Pat.'s  most  excellent  taste  would  not 
be  amiss  at  Trifleton  House.  In  addition  to  these 
things,  you  had  "  various  small  trifles  too  numerous  to 
mention  !  "  Ah,  miserable  gourmand  !  is  it  thus  that 
you  enjoy  the  country?  And  all  the  while  you  were 
discussing  those  things,  Prig  was  abed,  and  BufF-y  was 
dying.  Don't  attribute  our  strictures  on  that  breakfast 
to  envy ;  for  you  ought  to  know  we  don't  stoop  to  that 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  55 

kind — but  between  us  (tell  it  not  in  Trifleton)  we 
should  like  to  see  one  of  those  breakfasts. 

And  so,  for  once  in  the  course  of  your  —  can  it  be  so 
long!  — pilgrimage,  you  have  seen  the  sun  rise.  Evi 
dently  it  has  made  an  impression  on  you  as  it  ought  ; 
for  what  more  glorious  sight  can  meet  the  unaccus 
tomed  vision  ?  But  you  have  not  yet  learned  to  see 
all  the  glories  and  beauties  of  the  time  and  the  scene. 
You  saw  in  the  sun  a  Titan,  who  would  climb  over  the 
mountain  clouds  up  to  high  heaven,  with  proud,  satis 
fied,  defiant  look.  The  sparkling  splendor  of  the 
ocean  did  not  escape  you,  for  it  glared  into  your  eyes 
with  blinding  power.  But  far  away  on  the  purple  hills 
that  smiled  a  welcome  to  the  jocund  day,  or  where  the 
valleys  sleeping  still  in  misty  shadows  lay  ;  where  the 
light  of  violet  and  gold  over  the  heavens  spread,  and 
glistening  gleams  of  beauty  into  the  dew  drops  shed, 
on  white  webs  spotting  every  field  ;  where  matin  cho 
rals  rung,  as  the  bright  winged  worshippers  on  leafy 
branches  swung,  —  thitherward  your  eye  turned  not, 
and  your  soul  saw  not  the  serene  and  quiet  beauty 
of  the  morn.  But  not  everything  is  to  be  seen  at  a 
glance,  nor  all  the  glory  and  beauty  and  goodness 
manifested  in  God's  works  to  be  appreciated  by  the 
soul  just  awaking  from  the  stupor  of  worldliness.  Up 
from  the  drowsy  pillow,  arise  early,  each  morning, 
expanding  Trifle,  and  you  shall  behold  and  enjoy 
splendor  and  loveliness  hitherto  hidden  from  your  im 
perfect  vision. 

At  Trifleton  you  even  "  fish  in  the  most  human 
fashion."  Did  you  ever  reflect  on  that  picture  of  a 
line  with  a  hook  at  one  end  and  a  fool  at  the  other  ? 


56  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

That  was  Dr.  Johnson's  idea  of  a  disciple  of  old  Izaak 
Walton,  was  it  not  ?  Shrimp  doesn't  look  on  pisca 
tory  sport  in  such  a  light,  not  he.  Even  when  he  went 
a  mile  or  two  on  a  dark  and  gusty  night  —  so  dark 
that  one  could  scarcely  feel  distinctly,  and  so  gusty 
that  there  was  danger  of  being  blown  away  into  the 
darkness  —  such  an  idea  didn't  cross  his  mind.  He 
carried  a  lantern,  which  he  hung  over  the  dark  and 
chafing  waters  that  the  fish  might  see  to  bite,  but  he 
never  thought  of  Dr.  Johnson's  description.  He  didn't 
get  a  bite  —  not  a  nibble  ;  yet  the  wise  saw  of  the  old 
bear  never  occurred  to  him.  Nor  was  he  discouraged 
—  late,  cold,  fishless,  his  gear  in  a  snarl,  he  was  just 
as  ready  as  ever  to  go  the  next  day  with  no  better 
prospects.  Can  you  boast  of  such  a  steadfast  purpose 
in  realizing  the  saying  of  the  old  lexicographer  ?  —  or 
in  doing  anything  else?  Such  zeal  and  earnestness 
we  commend  to  you  in  other  things,  such  as  cultiva 
tion  of  the  garden  at  Trifleton  House,  the  affections, 
the  virtues,  and  all  else  that  shall  yield  good  fruits. 

We  are  glad  to  hear  more  of  Pink  and  Stubs  and 
"  him  ;  "  only  we  should  not  care  how  you  dropped  the 
latter  subject  in  mid  ocean.  Is  it  possible  that  even  on 
the  top  of  all  his  money  bags  he  can  be  tall  enough  to 
overtop  Stubs  ?  If  so,  Pink  shall  be  the  delectable  Pink 
no  longer,  and  we  will  not  quarrel  with  your  radish 
comparison. 

To  satisfy  Pat.'s  curiosity  —  intercede  with  her 
for  "  a  thousand  pardons  "  to  our  familiarity  !  —  we 
would  gladly  say  a  word  of  Hard  ;  but  he  is  out  of 
our  sight  now,  gone  to  Newport  —  and  misery.  Only 
your  allusion  to  the  "  plaintive  Motherwell,"  recalls  a 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  57 

scene  which  may  throw  a  gleam  of  light  on  the  shadow 
which  surrounds  him.  He  was  in  our  library,  where 
the  cherry  tree  shadows  the  northern  window,  and  sat 
there  long,  reading  and  dreaming,  —  dreaming  and 
reading  Motherwell.  We  let  him  have  his  way,  for 
we  were  engaged  in  the  delightful  occupation  of 
"  paragraphs."  At  length  he  threw  down  the  book, 
and  in  a  tone  as  plaintive  as  Motherwell's  he  said,  — 
not  to  us,  for  when  he  talks  thus-  he  speaks  to  the  winds, 
the  trees,  the  stars,  anything  that  is  not  human,  — 

"Oh!  Dream  of  Life's  early  day,  farewell  forever." 

We  looked  up  in  wonder  to  hear  a  youth  talk  thus. 
Yet  was  he  in  earnest,  —  it  was  all  real  to  him.  Si 
lently,  with  a  look,  we  inquired  his  meaning,  and  for 
a  moment  the  ice  was  thawed,  —  that  ice  that  had 
gathered  about  his  warm,  sensitive  heart,  under  the 
chilling  influence  of  circumstances,  and  cold,  worldly 
natures  about  him,  These  latter  were  with  him  still 
when  he  made  a  European  tour,  chilling  him  even  in 
sunny  Italy  and  amid  the  warm  airs  of  southern  France. 
Florence  he  had  seen  and  felt  a  sunbeam  ;  he  had 
met 

— "  one  of  those  forms  that  pass  us  by 
In  the  world's  crowd,  too  lovely  to  remain,  — 
Creatures  of  light  we  never  see  again." 

So  he  expressed  it.  If  you  knew  Hard  —  and  you 
have  seen  his  counterpart,  doubtless  —  you  might  im 
agine  how  the  ray  that  shot  through  the  icy  crust 
lighted  a  fire  within.  Since  that  time  the  crust  has 
been  growing  colder  and  harder  and  thicker,  and  the 
fire  is  more  compressed  and  concentrated.  And  so 


58  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

he  lives,  without  aims  or  hopes ;  without  occupation, 
for  his  family  are  ahove  it  —  they  think  ;  without  dis 
play  and  fashionable  folly,  for  he  is  too  sensible  for 
that. 

Gently  we  dropped  a  few  wise  words  for  his  benefit 
—  words  such  as  he  might  feel  the  worth  of,  if  he 
chose,  —  to  plant  a  little  seed  of  purpose  in  his  soul. 
Most  likely  it  fell  not  on  good  ground  —  but  let  us 
hope.  Nature  has  wondrous  balms  for  such  wounds 
as  his  ;  and  good  works,  deeds  of  charity,  a  little 
self-sacrifice,  shall  be  an  occupation  in  spite  of  the 
foolish  pride  of  others.  Yes  —  we  have  some  hopes 
of  him. 

Shall  this  be  enough  for  you,  this  time  ?  —  for  it  is 
you  who  would  fain  ask  questions  and  ascribe  your 
curiosity  to  the  innocent  Pat. 

Let  us  not  be  forgotten  in  the  circle  of  Trifleton 
House, —  and  so  —  till  we  meet  at  that  breakfast 
table,  or  hear  from  you,  good  bye. 


TRIFLETON    TAPERS.  59 


VII. 


TRIFLETON  HOUSE, 
"While  the  Crickets  sing. 

1  TURN,  calm  friend,  from  the  crickets  to  you  ;  for 
by  the  crack  cricket  club  of  the  class  of  '44,  I  shall 
run  mad  at  this  rate. 

Oh  !  crackey  !  —  crickey  !  —  my  sweet  little  crickey, 
do  stop  a  little  while,  for  don't  you  perceive  the  Editor 
must  be  written  to,  and  how  do  you  suppose  Trifle  can 
think  with  your  ubiquitous  and  eternal  "  wh-re-w," — 
"her-rh,"  —  "  her-h  ?  " 

Ah,  thank  you  !  you  are  becoming  polite.  I  should 
know  you  frequented  Trifleton  House.  Your  tones  are 
softer,  more  polished,  and  natural  than  before.  You 
will  be  quite  a  Trifleton  cricket,  soon  ! 

But  sir  !  —  sir  Editor  !  —  what  you  mean  by  "  the 
indulgence  of  that  '  eleven  o'clock  '  habit  which  you 
acquired  in  your  city  life,"  is  beyond  us  all.  Pat.  says 
she  knows  nothing  of  any  habits  of  mine  —  except 
your  remark  be  intended  as  a  poor  fling  at  the  thread 
bare  coat  in  which  I  used  to  march  to  my  seat  at  that 
hour,  when  you  and  I  were  in  the  great  and  General 
Court  together. 

It  is  quite  true  I  had  that  identical  coat  on  at 
BufF-y's  grave.  It  is  also  true  that  I  "  acquired  "  it  in 
Boston,  and  have,  of  necessity,  "  indulged  '*  it,  because 


60  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

Trifle  must  treat  his  clothes  tenderly;  —  otherwise,  Pat. 
and  Prig  would  be  restricted  in  bread  and  butter,  and 
corn  cake. 

I  told  Pat.  that  I  didn't  think  you  meant  any  such 
thing  as  she  suggested  ;  for,  although  you  were  guilty 
sometimes  of  a  feeble  joke,  I  had  never  convicted  you 
of  anything  so  jejune  and  barren  as  that.  You  must 
refer  to  some  habit  you  city  men  are  familiar  with, 
but  which  is  as  a  sealed  book  to  such  as  we  are.  —  No 
doubt. 

''•  Fried  potatoes  "  at  "  Young's,"  too,  or  "  Parker's !  " 
—  Stubs  thinks  that  these  men  must  sell  fried  pota 
toes.  How  extremely  comical !  Said  I,  "  Do  they  sell 
1  nothin  '  else  ?  "  He  replied,  "  I  don't  know  !  "  After 
a  little  reflection,  however,  we  called  to  mind  that  this 
Parker  might,  perhaps,  be  the  same  man  who  used  to 
furnish  us  "  woodcock,"  &c.,  in  a  sepulchral  cellar, 
some  years  ago,  when  we  were  boys  at  Harvard.  He 
had  fried  potatoes,  then  ;  but  we  saw  the  folly  of  this 
supposition,  because  that  clement  Parker,  and  also 
another  continent  man,  named  Taft,  used  to  give  us 
certain  kindly  drinks  with  our  "  woodcock,"  and  "  fried 
potatoes,"  and  it  has  been  ascertained  in  our  Courts  of 
Justice,  of  late,  that  nothing  of  the  kind  is  furnished 
in  Boston  now,  and  that  none  but  Temperance  men  of 
many  years  standing  (fourteen  years  say,  for  instance) 

frequent  those  places  where  they  sell   liq "  fried 

potatoes,"  I  would  say. 

So,  who  these  individuals  are,  —  this  Parker  and  this 
Young,  —  is  still  a  pleasant  mystery  to  us.  Let  it  be 
conceded,  however,  that  their  occupation  (if  it  be  such) 
of  selling  fried  potatoes  is  an  honorable  one,  and  goes 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  61 

far  towards  sustaining  and  conserving  their  community. 
1  have  heard  aldermen  say  so,  and  aldermen  are  as 
oracular,  often,  and  impress  me  as  forcibly  as  do  "  in 
tellectual,"  and  "  polished,"  and  "  strong-minded  " 
women.  Both  are  indispensable  conditions  of  our 
serene  system  of  society,  doubtless,  and  1  try  to  be 
adequately  grateful  when  an  alderman  vouchsafes  to 
speak  to  me,  or  a  "  brilliant "  woman  condescends  an 
opinion  in  my  presence.  A  great  many  such  women 
have  imparted  to  me  the  benefit  of  their  opinions  on 
matters  of  taste,  manners,  habits,  &c.,  and  an  alderman 
had  the  assurance  once,  I  mean  did  me  the  honor,  un 
asked,  to  take  my  arm  in  the  street. 

But,  it  having  been  resolved,  by  juries  of  their  peers, 
that  those  mythical  individuals,  like  Parker  and  Young, 
(efid  omne  genus)  attract  young  men  no  longer  to  their 
"  woodcock,"  and  "  fried  potatoes,"  by  the  vivacious 
and  exhilarating  persuasiveness  of  Schreider,  and  Heid- 
sieck,  and  sparkling  Hock,  how  extremely  grateful  we 
ought  to  be  all !  —  Oh,  beneficent  results  of  the  Maine 
Law  !  Except  for  such  a  God-send,  who  knows  but 
college  boys  would  still  be  drinking  Champagne,  and 
anxious  Governors,  or  those  anxious  to  be  Governors, 
be  resolving,  from  policy,  to  commit  themselves  openly 
to  abstemious  and  carefully  guarded  habits,  forever. 
Let  us  be  sufficiently  grateful  that  nobody  sells  "  in 
toxicating  drink  "  in  Boston.  Could  we  have  foreseen 
that  such  would  have  been  the  effect  of  the  Maine  Law, 
should  we  have  voted  against  it,  as  we  did  when  we 
were  legislators  ?  Alas,  no  !  Incontestably,  no  !  It  is 
clear  we  shall  never  become  statesmen.  We  have  no 
prophetic  glance,  my  Editor.  We  can  forsee  nothing. 


62  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

I  consider,  therefore,  that  you  are  bound  to  own  up  to 
the  world,  as  I  do  now,  and  hereby,  as  the  lawyers 
say,  that  you  approve  of  the  Maine  Law,  and  regard 
Neal  Dow  as  a  projector  whose  results  and  conse 
quences  are  not  to  be  murdered  (to  borrow  a  word) 
by  so  indifferent  a  nobody  as  Trifle.  Let  us  hear 
from  you  upon  this  subject. 

But  enough  of"  woodcock"  and  "  champagne,"  and 
—  no  !  not  of  "  fried  potatoes."  They  are  harmless, 
to  a  degree  ;  but  I  wish  you  would  persuade  u  Mary  " 
not  to  cut  and  fry  the  pork  in  such  thick  slices.  She 
is  absolutely  incorrigible  upon  this  point.  When  you 
come  to  "  see "  that  breakfast,  don't,  please,  fall  in 
love  with  her,  pretty  as  she  is;  for  "Robert"  has 
undoubtedly  worked  upon  her  sensibilities.  Do  you 
consider,  delectablest  of  editors,  that  cooks  are  huiTian 
and  have  hearts  like  as  we  have,  and  are  capable  of 
affection  ?  I  know  it  to  be  a  fact ;  and  even  you 
could  stand  no  chance  against  "  Robert."  Please  ap 
prise  Mrs.  Editor  of  that. 

Yes,  sir  !  It  is  quite  time  we  were,  done  with  the 
small  frivolities  of  "  woodcock "  eating  (and  oysters 
— Prince's  Bay's  —  fried  in  crumbs),  and  the  drinking 
of  slender  drinks.  If  we  must  ever  drink,  let  it  be 
only  "  occasionally "  of  such  .things  as  intoxicate 
some,  or  give  the  headache  to  all  ;  but  let  us  rather 
drink  deeply  of  those  things  that  give  the  headache 
to  none,  and  intoxicate  all  with  a  most  delicious  sense. 
Deeply,  O  deeply  let  us  drink  at  the  fountains  of 
purity,  virtue  and  love  ;  at  the  springs  of  hope  and 
the  wells  of  faith.  When  we  are  worn  by  the  toil  of 
life  —  are  desponding,  and  well  nigh  discouraged  — 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  63 

are  become  faint  and  sick  in  our  pilgrimage  —  are 
breaking  up,  and  yearning  for  the  grave,  let  us  drink, 
into  our  very  souls,  the  beauty  and  harmony  of  God's 
works,  —  the  serenity  of  the  stars,  the  eloquence  of  the 
sea,  the  eternal  silence  of  the  hills,  and,  chiefest  of 
all,  the  unutterable  tenderness  of  His  mercy  and  His 
love. 

We  thirst  for  power,  position,  wealth,  fame,  — 
which  is  very  well.  Let  us  also  thirst  for  an  edu 
cated  nature,  a  purified  life,  a  victory  over  ourselves 
which  shall  be  the  earnest  of  a  mightier  and  more 
glorious  victory  in  the  coming  eternity. 

You  were  extremely  felicitous,  fastidious  Editor,  in 
rapping  my  knuckles  for  attempting  to  describe  a  sun 
rise.  However,  I  thought,  and  still  think,  it  was 
tolerably  well  done  for  a  man  who  has  only  seen  this 
phenomenon  twice,  —  once  at  Trifleton  and  once  at 
Catskill.  Since  I  wrote  you,  however,  I  have  seen 
him  set.  One  evening,  in  particular,  I  watched  his 
decline.  He  went  with  a  march  down  behind  some 
thunder-clouds  that  were  full  of  rain ;  clouds  that 
lacked  expression,  in  a  word,  till  he  came  along.  He 
made  a  golden  diamond  of  every  rain-drop,  and  fitted 
it,  for  a  moment,  to  show  me  the  force  of  beauty 
heightened  by  power.  He  then  proceeded  to  burn  his 
diamonds  all  up;  and,  shedding  the  lustre  of  his 
parting  smiles  upon  the  bewildered  clouds,  which  by 
this  time  were  making  off  somewhat  hastily,  down  he 
went  —  first  marking  out,  however,  a  sharp  and  well- 
defined  line  of  crimson  upon  the  edge  of  the  southern 
and  western  horizon,  far  as  the  eye  could  reach, 
which  lingered,  until — calm,  twilight  over  the  hills 


64  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

came  stealing,  and  the  moon  rose  up  from  the  sea, 
and  group  after  group  of  stars,  revealing  God's  power, 
love,  mystery,  shone  forth ;  while  over  the  waves 
came  pealing  the  musical  sound  of  hells,  addressing 
my  innermost  soul  of  feeling,  and  opening  memory's 
cells. 

I  saw,  O  how  clearly  !  the  past  before  me.  I  trem 
bled,  1  shuddered  with  fears  ;  my  life,  from  the  time 
my  mother  bore  me,  I  looked  on  through  burning 
tears.  I  cried  with  all  the  passion  that  tore  me,  "  O 
life,  to  unfaithfulness  given!" — when,  hark!  the 
sweet  stars  that  were  shining  o'er  me,  out- whispered, 
"  Hence  live  for  heaven  !  " 

A  glorious  figure,  with  wings,  and  bearing  a  scroll 
in  his  hand,  flew  by  ;  in  letters  of  fire  1  read,  in  my 
daring :  "  Thy  life,  as  recorded  on  high !  "  Yes, 
there  stood  the  story  ;  —  my  sins  were  all  glaring  ;  —  I 
read,  while  my  courage  died  fast,  O  God  !  to  the  end  I 
—  these  golden  words  bearing:  "Accepted  through 
Jesus  at  last." 

And  the  bells,  once  again,  in  their  music  hushing 
the  murmuring  voice  of  the  sea,  pealed  forth,  with 
an  almost  passionate  gushing,  in  their  exquisite  har 
mony  ;  and  the  moon,  with  a  flood  of  brilliancy  flush 
ing,  hill,  sea  and  plain,  saw  the  thoughts  that  came, 
all  tranquilly  rushing,  thrice  purified,  through  my 
brain. 

Have  we  "  any  green  corn,  soft,  tender,  delicious 
sweet  corn  "  in  our  garden  ?  Well,  I  should  suppose 
we  had.  I  should  rather  think  we  had,  —  I'm  pretty 
confident  we  have  ;  for  I  have  some  faint  recollec 
tions  of  having  had  to  pluck  it  for  dinner  for  about 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  65 

three  weeks  past  every  day.  But  we  are  about  done 
with  it.  We  consider  that  to  be  corned  for  three 
weeks  is  quite  as  much  as  we  can  reasonably  stagger 
under.  However,  I  agree  with  Stubs,  that  your  in 
quiry,  after  all  I  have  said  upon  the  subject  of  my 
farming,  is  a  very  queer  one.  It  seems  to  convey  a 
doubt,  or  at  least  a  suspicion,  that  Trifleton  farming  is 
not  much.  Come  and  see,  sir !  I  say  it,  and  I  say  it 
boldly ;  for  Pat.  and  1  have  concluded  upon  the  most 
critical  examination  of  this  remark  of  yours  —  "  we 
should  like  to  see  one  of  those  breakfasts,"  that  you've 
rather  caught  us,  and  that  we  can't  very  well  "  dodge  " 
saying  "  Come  !  "  But  I  trust  you  will  consider  what 
it  is  you've  invited  yourself  to,  sir !  You've  read  of 
Charles  Lamb's  suppers,  I  suppose,  and  Rogers'  break 
fasts.  Possibly  you  might  have  got  along  with  either 
by  slily  keeping  dumb  while  others  talked  —  looking 
very  wise,  as  Lamb's  alderman  did ;  but,  at  Trifleton 
House,  you  can't  do  any  such  thing.  We  have  a  way 
of  drawing  people  out,  and  if  you  are  not  sufficiently 
brilliant,  you  won't  shine  in  Pat.'s  eyes,  for  the  fact  is, 
my  dear  friend,  I've  rather  set  you  up  to  Pat.  Pve 
said  this  sort  of  thing  — "  He  is  very  much  of  a 
scholar.  He  is  ornate  and  cultured  ;  has  correct  tastes, 
is  appreciative,  genial,  natural,  &c.  I  told  her  you 
could  "  cut  me  all  out,"  so  that  if  you  wish  to  maintain 
your  reputation  with  her,  I  rather  think  you  would 
better  not  come.  Not  that  I  think  you  would  laugh  at 
my  garden  —  not  that  I'm  afraid  you  could  talk  me 
down.  But  you  see  how  it  is. 

"I'd  like  to  have  him  come,"  said  Pat.     "  If  he 
5 


66  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

can  talk  better  than  you  I'd  like  to  have  him  do  it, 
that's  all." 

I  really  want  you  to  come;  but,  but  —  if,  by  any 
possibility,  or  mere  accident,  you  know,  you  should 
happen  —  just  for  one  morning,  to  appear  "  smarter  " 
than  Trifle,  why  see  how  Pat.  would  feel.  You  per 
ceive  I  don't  think  of  myself  at  all ;  I'm  only  a  little 
anxious  on  your  account  and  Pat.'s.  But  if  you  choose 
to  come  and  "  see "  my  breakfasts,  and  criticize  my 
garden  and  my  cigars,  and  my  —  (I  tell  you  plainly 
there  are  only  three  or  four  bottles  left,)  —  if  you 
choose  to  do  it,  why,  do  it !  Yes,  sir,  I  say  as  Pat. 
says  :  I'd  like  to  see  you  do  it  —  I  dare  you  to  do  it ; 
and,  what's  more,  I'll  call  in  Stubs,  though  he's  rather 
abstracted  of  late.  Pink  is  at  Newport,  and  "  he  "  is 
in  her  party  and  has  been  much  devoted  to  her. 
Stubs  concluded  not  to  go  ;  I  don't  know  why.  We 
are  talking  a  little  of  Niagara.  Pat.  stands  some 
what  in  her  own  light  about  it ;  but  we  will  manage  it, 
and  Stubs  will  go  with  us  ;  as  where  wouldn't  he  go 
with  me  ? 

We  have  been  engaged  lately  in  reading  "  Maud, 
and  other  Poems."  If  you  have  read  "  Maud  "  but  once, 
my  advice  is,  read  it  again  ;  study  it,  in  fact,  and  you 
may  then  see  something  worthy  of  Tennyson  in  it, 
though  Tennyson,  in  my  judgment,  is  by  no  means  an 
admirable  poet.  He  is  extremely  infertile  in  incident, 
and  all  that  he  creates  is  vague,  impalpable  and  in 
distinct.  He  deals  in  shadows  pertinaciously,  and  is 
never  real  except  when  he  is  unreal.  He  was  evi 
dently  off  his  guard  when  he  wrote  the  May  Queen, 
and  he  has  amply  atoned  for  the  sweet  naturalness  of 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  67 

that  delicious  little  poem,  by  the  strained  bitterness 
and  acidulated  sourness,  —  not  to  say  affectation,  cant 
and  occasional  nonsense  of"  Maud." 

Won't  you  please  to  inform  me  why  the  Poet  Lau 
reate  of  England  should  write,  much  less  print,  such 
stuff  as  this  ? 

"  I  keep  but  a  man  and  a  maid,  ever  ready  to  slander  and 
steal," 

Is  that  any  reason  for  him  to  hate  everybody,  and 
"  smile  a  hard  set  smile,"  when  it  is  notorious  that 
"  help"  honest  withal,  can  be  hired  for  a  reasonable 
compensation  ?  And  again : 

"  We  whisper,  and  hint,  and  chuckle,  and  grin  at  a  brother's 
shame." 

Do  we,  in  point  of  fact  ?  and,  if  we  do,  my  Christian 
friend,  where's  the  need  of  prating  it  all  over  creation, 
to  disgust  men  with  themselves  and  each  other  ?  They 
will  never  become  better  by  being  told  such  things, 
and  the  poet's  mission  is,  or  should  be,  to  make  men 
better.  And  again  : 

"  I  have  not  made  the  world,  and  He  that  made  it  will  guide." 

This  would  be  a  noble  utterance,  and  sound  philoso 
phy,  if  it  were  warmed  by,  and  were  a  consequence 
of,  or  even  accompanied  by  —  Faith;  but  it  is  not, 
but  is,  in  the  connection,  equivalent  to  saying  —  among 
these  "  long  neck'd  geese  of  the  world,"  and  this 
"  clamor  of  liars,"  and  this  cloud  of  "  poisonous  flies  " 
—  "  I'm  not  responsible  for  the  world  ;  I  didn't  make  it. 
Let  him  that  did,  take  care  of  it." 

What  a  fine  sentiment  this  is,  to  be  sure  ! 


68  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

"  Thanks,  for  the  fiend  best  knows  whether  woman  or  man  be 

the  worse. 

I  will  bury  myself  in  my  books,  and  the  devil  may  pipe  to  his 
own." 

Again : 

"  Ah,  what  shall  I  be  at  fifty 

Should  Nature  keep  me  alive, 
If  I  find  the  world  so  bitter, 
When  I  am  but  twenty-five  ?  " 

Whom    does  Nature  keep    alive,  and  where   is  that 
Heavenly  Father,  in  whose  sight  the  hairs  of  our  heads 
are  numbered  ? 
Again  : 

"  Till  a  morbid  hate  and  horror  have  grown 
Of  a  world  in  which  I  have  hardly  mixt." 

It  is  to  be  conceded  that  it  is  not  Mr.  Alfred  Tenny 
son  who  speaks,  but  a  very  foolish,  weak,  jealous, 
crazy  young  man,  whose  occupation  seems  to  have 
been  to  manufacture  all  the  misery  he  could  for  him 
self. 

Nor  was  it  Lord  Byron,  but  Chibde  Harold  who' 
spoke,  when  he  retailed  off,  with  much  noble  poetry, 
an  indefinite  mass  of  misery,  made  to  order,  with 
which  to  provoke  the  tears  of  sentimental  misses  and 
impracticable  men,  till  doomsday.  I  have  no  sympathy 
with  any  such  nonsense.  If  a  man  has  griefs,  let  him 
go  and  expose  them  to  his  God,  and  ask  for  submission 
under  them. 

But  when  it  is  considered  what  the  cause  of  this 
extremely  interesting  young  man's  grief  or  madness 
was,  it  is  really  quite  ludicrous.  Love  it  was,  to  start 
with,  of  course  ;  next,  it  was  covetousness  of  his  neigh- 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  69 

bor's  good  fortune.  It  went  against  his  grain  that  his 
neighbor  was  rich,  and  he  himself  was  poor.  The 
father  of  the  one  broke  in  a  speculation  and  killed  him 
self,  and  the  father  of  the  other  "  made  money,"  as 
near  as  I  can  make  out,  for  the  story  part  isn't  told  in 
very  English  English.  It  is  so  very  poetical  that  it  is 
hard  to  understand.  What  though  the  one  family 
was  "  gorged"  and  the  other  "  flaccid  and  drained  ?  " 
What  then  ?  Isn't  it  so  everywhere  ;  in  the  same 
families  even  ?  Should  a  brother  hate  his  brother  for 
his  successes  in  trade,  and  a  sister  a  sister  because  she 
has  married  a  wealthy  man  ? 

Our  interesting  hero  was  "nameless  and  poor"  — 
the  old  whine,  you  see.  Then  why  not  make  himself 
a  name  and  wealth  ?  That's  what  men  do,  to  a  rea 
sonable  extent,  everywhere.  As  the  story  proceeds, 
the  interest  increases  by  his  meeting  Maud  and  her 
brother  "  abroad."  He  cut  the  one,  and  the  other  cut 
him. 

If  this  be  not  thrilling,  what  is  ? 

"  I  met  her  abroad  with  her  brother,  but  not  to  her  brother  I 
bowed." 

This  is  a  flatter  line,  though,  than  can  be  found  else 
where  in  the  poem.  In  fact,  if  there  were  more  com 
monplace  in  it,  there  would  be  more  light  and  shade, 
which  it  lacks.  After  a  while,  very  much  to  the 
reader's  relief,  they  "  make  up." 

A  lord  comes  in  as  a  suitor,  but  our  hero  engages 
the  affection  of  Maud  and  becomes  happy,  and,  like  a 
sensible  man,  kisses  her  with  a  "  long  lover's  kiss," 
gets  into  a  quarrel  with  her  brother,  kills  him  in  a  duel, 


70  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

becomes  crazy,  suffers  real  grief  and  agony,  and  after 
some  very  fine  talk,  as  nearly  as  can  be  ascertained, 
goes  out  to  the  Crimea  to  take  a  part  in  the  taking  of 
Sebastopol.  When  that  interesting  event  occurs,  we 
shall,  doubtless,  hear  from  him  again. 

To  be  serious,  I  like  not  this  poem,  though  it  contains 
many  exquisite  passages,  and  some  though  not  many 
very  natural  ones.  How  fine  is  this  : 


"  Ah,  Christ,  that  it  were 

For  one  short  hour  to  see 
The  souls  we  loved,  that  they  might  tell  us 
What  and  where  they  be." 

And  this : 

"And  a  million  horrible  bellowing  echoes  broke 
From  the  red-ribbed  hollow  behind  the  wood, 
And  thundered  up  into  Heaven  the  Christless  code, 
That  must  have  life  for  a  blow." 

And  this  : 

"  Not  die  ;  but  live  a  life  of  truest  breath, 
And  teach  true  life  to  fight  with  mortal  wrongs."  — 

How  natural  is  this  : 

11  Who  shall  call  me  ungentle,  unfair, 
I  longed  so  earnestly  then  and  there 
To  give  the  grasp  of  fellowship." 

The  vigor  and  force  of  this  is  terrific  : 

"  Gorgonized  me  from  head  to  foot 
With  a  stony  British  stare.1" 

How  eloquent  and  grand  is  this  —  the    noblest   and 
most  pregnant  passage  in  the  poem  : 

**  Ah,  God,  for  a  man  with  heart,  head,  hand, 
Like  some  of  the  simple  great  ones  gone 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  71 

Forever  and  ever  by, 
One  still  strong  man  in  a  blatant  land, 
Whatever  they  call  him,  what  care  I, 
Aristocrat,  democrat,  autocrat  —  one 
Who  can  rule  and  dare  not  lie." 

There  spoke  a  man  !  — 
And  how  beautiful  is  this : 

*'  And  she  touched  my  hand  with  a  smile  so  sweet, 
She  made  me  divine  amends 
For  a  courtesy  not  returned." 

How  exquisitely  beautiful  and  natural  is  this,  after  a 
solitary  and  passionate  denunciation  of  her  brother  : 

"  Peace,  angry  spirit,  and  let  him  be  ! 
Has  not  his  sister  smiled  on  me  ?  " 

It  half  redeems  such  nonsense  as 

"  the  scream  of  a  maddened  beach)" 

And 

—  "  the  heart  of  the  citizen  hissing  in  war  on  Lis  own  hearth 
stone  ; " 

And  many  other  things  quite  as  far  fetched  and  un 
natural. 

There  is  no  lack  of  force,  or  iron  compactness  in 
this  poem.  It  is  strong  enough,  but  it  has  no  breadth. 
It  is  inharmonious  in  its  details,  and  though  it  be  com 
pact,  as  I  have  said,  it  is  not  from  the  result  of  elements 
blending  and  flowing,  and  being  naturally  cemented 
together ;  but  it  is  gold  and  brass,  and  iron  and  steel, 
and  lead  and  dross  (not  to  speak  of  old  nails,  without 
heads)  all  fused  together  by  a  terrific  and  quasi  in 
fernal  heat.  There  is  nothing  for  you  to  stand  upon, 


72  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

and  if  it  make  you  feel,  at  all,  it  will  make  you  shudder 
and  weep.  It  will  not  fill  your  eyes  with  sweet,  ten 
der,  and  purifying  tears,  as  will  "  In  Memoriam,"  — 
and  make  you  happier  ;  but,  if  it  start  your  tears,  they 
will  burn  and  scald  you.  It  is  no  advance  upon 
"  Locksley  Hall,"  in  power  of  thought,  and  is  far 
inferior  to  it  in  true,  real,  earnest  manhood.  It  will 
never  address  the  universal  human  heart,  which  is  the 
test  of  genuine  poetry,  and  will  make  few  happier  and 
none  wiser.  There  is  nothing  spontaneous  and  gush 
ing  about  it,  and  hereafter,  when  I  feel  inclined  towards 
Tennyson,  I  shall  read  his  "  In  Memoriam,"  and  skip 
his  "  Maud." 

The  piece  entitled  "  The  Letters,"  is  quite  natural 
and  beautiful ;  and  the  "  Ode  on  the  Death  of  Wel 
lington,"  is  noble  beyond  account.  The  spirit  of 
Nelson  being  agitated  by  the  advent  of  Wellington's 
spirit,  is  a  fine  fancy,  and  indicates  the  genius  of  a  real 
poet.  But  what  Trifle  thinks  of  Tennyson  is  of  small 
consequence,  you  will  say,  no  doubt.  However,  fare 
well,  and  forgive  the  infliction  !  You,  and  all  of  you, 
are  held  in  continual  remembrance. 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  73 


VIII. 


THE  ARM  CHAIR, 
In  Autumn. 


i 

AUTUMN  —  do  you  mark  that,  mellowing  Trifle  ?  — 
golden  Autumn,  with  its  yellow  sheaves  and  its  luscious 
fruits,  has  come,  and  the  year  is  travelling  onward  to 
its  close ;  —  onward  through  the  gorgeous  forests  to 
the  bleak,  crisp  fields  beyond,  where  in  the  wail  of  the 
wintry  wind  it  shall  expire.  Ah,  friend,  in  its  soft 
springtime  and  its  leafy  summer  how  have  we  grown  ? 
What  flowers  and  fruits  have  we  borne  ?  what  precious 
harvests  have  we  garnered,  that  in  the  dark  and  win 
try  days  we  may  sit  us  down  and  rejoice  ?  What 
store  have  ye  gathered,  ye  plodders  in  the  dusty  streets 
of  trade — what  besides  your  gold,  hoarded  to  rust 
beneath  the  sweat  of  your  anxiety,  or  thriftlessly  lav 
ished  in  that  cold  display  which  crushes  into  the  dust 
the  hearts  of  the  poor  and  unfortunate  ?  Or  ye  who 
have  yawned  out  your  ennui  in  the  interregnum  of 
"  the  seasons,"  sighing  for  those  weeks  of  social  mock 
ery,  that  came  at  last,  at  the  watering  places  —  what 
have  ye  reaped  for  your  exhausted  bodies  and  collaps 
ing  minds,  except  weariness  and  bitter  regrets  ?  Price 
less  fruits  in  inexhaustible  fields  are  all  about  us  — 
but  alas  !  for  the  dearth  of  reapers.  The  summer  of 


74  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

life,  too,  is  passing,  senescent  Trifle,  and  its  autumn 
steals  on  —  steals  on  so  gently  that  we  heed  it  not,  till 
the  sere  leaf  shall  be  already  upon  us.  God  grant 
that  those  soft,  golden  days  may  be  ours,  —  those  days 
when  the  splendor  of  ripened  leaves  and  fruits  glows 
in  the  rich,  hazy  sunlight  of  an  Indian  Summer,  and 
all  is  peace  and  beauty. 

"  Behold  a  wonder  !  "  we  exclaimed,  most  miracu 
lous  Trifle,  as  we  finished  your  last  plethoric  epistle. 
Often  have  we  marvelled  how  the  little  seed  cast  into 
the  ground  should  become  a  spreading  plant,  a  bloom 
ing  shrub,  a  lofty,  fruit-bearing  tree,  and  how  the 
substance  and  fluids  of  this  solid  earth  should  be  so 
transformed  into  beauty.  But  we  are  amazed  now, 
finding  you,  the  city-bred  drudge  among  figures  and 
the  hard  facts  of  trade,  when  set  down  in  the  garden 
of  Trifleton  House,  where  you  can  smell  the  fresh 
earth,  feel  the  warm  sunlight  and  inspire  the  pure  air, 
suddenly  transformed  into  a  humorist,  poet,  and  critic  ! 
Verily,  that  garden  has  produced  something — not 
under  your  cultivation,  presumptuous  husbandman, 
but  under  the  genial  influences  of  nature  —  better 
than  down-growing  radishes  or  procumbent  vines. 

We  should  not  have  believed  it.  It  is  quite  true 
that  from  time  to  time,  you  have  dropped  some  sayings 
—  unpremeditated,  of  course  —  which  seemed  quite 
smart, —  palpable  hits,  funny  resemblances  of  wit; 
but  then  they  were  manifestly  to  be  set  down  as  the 
accidents  of  verdancy.  Else  were  they  the  uncon 
scious  buds  of  this  new  product  of  Trifleton,  which 
has  so  suddenly  blossomed.  Beware  lest  the  frost, 
which  Wolsey  says  comes  "  the  third  day,"  shall 
nip  its  root. 


TR1FLETON    PAPERS.  75 

But,  look  you,  oblivious  Trifle  !  if  in  the  transmuta 
tions  which  you  have  undergone,  Young  and  Parker 
are  as  myths  to  you,  it  becomes  us  to  recall  the  past, 
that  among  your  other  unpardonable  sins  you  may  not 
count  ingratitude, — -ingratitude  to  those  who  (for  a 
consideration)  have  so  often  fed  you  and  made  your 
heart  glad  with  delectable  —  purified  Cochituate.  Do 
you  not  remember  that  it  was  you  who  led  us  thither, 
to  resorts  until  then  unknown  to  us?  Let  one  memo 
rable  instance  recount  a  score.  With  what  familiar 
steps  you  ascended  the  stairs  and  proceeded  to  a  quiet 
room,  where  we  found  a  table  spread  for  four  !  With 
what  a  conscious  air  you  played  the  host,  in  anticipa 
tion  of  Trifleton  House  !  And  then  the  courses,  — 
from  oysters  and  soup  to  dessert,  were  they  not  after 
your  own  taste,  with  all  the  accompaniments,  fried 
potatoes  and  all  ?  Was  not  your  tongue  fluent  (not 
with  words)  while  we  were  liquidating  the  affairs  of 
Schreider  and  Johannisberger  ?  And  did  that  last 
fragrant  weed  —  genuine  Cuban  —  render  you  so  ob 
livious  that  you  remember  not  the  pleasant-faced  man, 
whom  governors  and  other  great  men  familiarly  call 
u  George,"  when  he  came  to  receive  the  quid  pro 
fried  potatoes  ?  Was  it  so  Lethean  as  to  last  to  this 
day  ?  What  a  pity  that  Orestes  had  not  discovered  it, 
—  not  Brownson,  for  though  he  has  sighed  for  "  rest  " 
often  enough,  he  is  probably  sufficiently  oblivious  of 
his  antecedents. 

And  after  this  you  want  us  to  "  own  up  "  that  we 
approve  of  the  Maine  Law.  Possibly  we  might,  but 
then  it  is  rather  awkward  to  follow  Dogberry's  com 
mand  in  public.  Still,  its  beneficent  results  are 


76  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

not  to  be  overlooked,  and  we  cannot  but  "  smile," 
when  we  think  how  the  simple  writing  of  that,  "  per 
fection  of  human  reason,"  has  brought  it  about  that  no 
u  spirituous  and  intoxicating  liquors  "  are  sold  in  Bos 
ton.  Are  not  these  liquors  the  "  fruitful  source  "  of 
all  the  crime,  vice  and  misery  in  the  world  ?  Lo, 
then,  this  Boston,  which  you  so  incontinently  deserted, 
has  become  a  serpentless  Eden,  calling  you  back  to 
its  unpolluted  streets,  —  its  peaceful,  unpolluted  streets, 
where  only  virtue  dwells  and  poverty  is  not.  Then 
paeans  to  the  Maine  Law  !  the  law  that  "  executes" 
itself,  and  never  is  violated.  Henceforth  "  cobblers  " 
shall  stick  to  the  last,  and  if  Hamlet  lived  now  and 
here,  he  would  have  no  occasion  to  complain  of 

*'  The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune." 

Ay,  then,  sing  lo  Bacche  !  —  tut,  tut !  we  should 
say,  paeans  to  the  Maine  Law  ! 

Sunsets  are  glorious  sights.  But  of  all  the  beauti 
ful,  inspiring  sunsets  that  one  "  in  particular  "  must 
have  been  superlative  which  made  a  new  poet  at 
Trifleton  House.  A  poet,  but  no  verse  maker.  Know 
you  not  where  your  lines  begin,  O  wondrously  stupid 
poet  ?  Perceive  you  not  the  jingle  of  your  rhymes, 
that  you  should  thus  write  on  as  if  in  plain  prose, 
stupefying  the  printer  and  putting  your  reader  at 
fault  ?  Yet  it  is  evident  you  do  not  count  out  your 
lines  upon  your  fingers,  and  so  you  give  promise  that 
the  world  is  not  to  be  afflicted  with  your  effusions.  As 
we  read  this  part  of  your  letter,  however,  we  began  to 
fear  that  we  were  in  haste  when  we  said,  formerly, 
that  the  fates  had  spared  us  the  infliction  of  your  play- 


TR1FLETON    PAPERS.  77 

ing  the  poet.  Happily  the  symptoms  are  favorable,  as 
above  noted  ;  and  the  matter  you  have  given  us,  —  ah  ! 
that  is  the  utterance  of  the  soul,  deep-toned  and  sweet, 
—  the  utterance  of  a  soul  wherein  faith  dwelleth.  We 
shall  show  this  to  Hard  ;  he  is  appreciative  and  it  may 
do  him  good. 

And  now,  sir  —  most  courteous  Trifle,  your  state 
ment  that  you  can't  very  well  dodge  saying  "  Come," 
is  somewhat  of  the  coolest.  We  invite  ourself  to 
Trifleton  House  !  —  that  is  marvellous.  And  all  be 
cause  we  expressed  our  wonder  at  your  breakfast  — 
and  such  a  breakfast  —  in  the  homely  way  that  we 
should  like  to  see  one  such.  Well,  we  should  like  to 
see  the  sea-serpent,  but  it  don't  follow  that  we  expect 
that  retiring  individual  to  invite  us  to  such  a  sight. 
But  you  say  "  Come  "  in  an  exceedingly  shabby  man 
ner,  and  then  you  try  to  buy  us  off,  lest,  in  our  light, 
Pat.  should  be  able  to  see  those  deficiencies  which  you 
flatter  yourself  are  now  hidden  from  her.  But  we  are 
not  to  be  begged  off,  nor  frightened  by  any  bug-bears. 
If  we  come  to  one  of  these  breakfasts,  what  is  it  to  us 
if  it  surpass  those  of  Rogers  in  the  cultivation  or 
genius  of  the  company  ?  We  shall  not  come  to  shine  — 
we  shall  come  to  eat ;  and  we  warn  you  that,  living  in 
the  country,  (don't  call  us  a  city  man  again  !  )  we  are 
blessed  with  a  good  appetite  ;  and  fried  potatoes  and 
corn-cake,  unbolted-wheat  bread  and  the  et  ceteras  — 
we  abominate  cucumbers,  though  — will  disappear  be 
fore  us  like  Sweaborg  before  the  allies. 

Nor  shall  we  condescend  to  meddle  with  your  culi 
nary  department,  or  show  the  "  incorrigible  Mary  " 
how  to  slice  pork.  When  we  go  out  to  breakfast  we 


78  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

expect  other  folks  to  cook  it  —  and  to  fall  in  love  with 
their  cooks,  too,  if  they  choose,  for  we  shan't ;  we 
come  to  —  eat.  With  this  warning  —  that  you  may 
provide  accordingly  —  we  accept  your  challenge  to 
come.  Yet,  after  what  you  say  about  being  "  sufficient 
ly  brilliant  "  and  saying  smart  things,  we  have  some 
misgivings  lest  your  delectable  breakfast  may  consist  of 
talk,  of  poetry,  of  moonshine  and  other  "unsubstantial 
phantoms  "  —  which  we  set  down  as  pretty  poor  eat 
ing.  Eating  is  a  good  thing  —  a  necessary  work,  a 
pleasant  process.  It  is  a  work  to  be  frequently  done, 
well  done,  and  done  gratefully, —  especially  is  it  to  be 
done  gratefully,  that  "  good  digestion  "  may  "  wait  on 
appetite."  Yes,  sir  —  we'll  come,  with  doubts,  but 
with  gratitude  —  even  though  the  last  "three  or  four 
bottles  "  be  already  gone. 

"  But  what  Trifle  thinks  of  Tennyson  is  of  small 
consequence."  A  wonderful  conclusion  to  arrive  at, 
truly,  after  a  column  of  criticism.  Had  you  any  mis 
givings  that  your  "  slashing  "  criticism  was  not  quite 
sound,  most  pungent  critic  ?  We  have.  Notwithstand 
ing  we  might  agree  with  some  of  your  notions  a  little 
smoothed  about  the  jagged  corners,  we  don't  subscribe 
to  all  your  crudities,  and  have  no  idea  of  being  your 
accomplice  in  despatching  the  Poet  Laureate  with  blunt 
knives  and  bludgeons. 

And  in  the  first  place  we  don't  think  it  necessary 
to  study  "  Maud  "  in  order  to  see  something  worthy 
of  Tennyson  in  it.  We  found  out  almost  numberless 
beauties  in  it  at  the  first  running  (or  riding)  perusal. 
Hardly  is  there  a  page  in  it  but  contains  lines  of  beauty 
or  thoughts  worthy  of  the  poet.  Such  things  meet  our 
eye  first,  and  unlike  you,  O  carping  Trifle,  we  find  the 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  79 

defects  when  we  study,  as  you  recommend.  We  don't 
propose  to  point  out  these  fine  things,  even  to  your  de 
fective  vision,  lest  our  paragraphs  might  emulate  yours 
in  number.  You  have,  indeed,  found  something  to 
approve  ;  and  possibly  by  a  little  more  study,  you 
might  discern  more  to  admire. 

But  the  one  grand  error  of  your  estimate  of  "  Maud  " 
is,  that  you  find  in  it  a  "  strained  bitterness,"  an  "  acid 
ulated  sourness,"  (what  is  that  ?  )  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing,  which  you  opine  should  be  avoided  by  the  poet. 
But  are  not  all  the  expressions  which  call  forth  these 
strictures  the  natural  utterance  of  one  situated  as  the 
hero  of  "  Maud  "  ?  And  is  not  this  a  legitimate  way  for 
the  poet  to  utter  his  earnest  cry  against  the  sins  and 
follies  and  corruptions  of  society  ?  He  tells  hard  truths 
—  must  he  wink  them  out  of  sight  ?  Must  the  poet 
sing  ever,  in  melodious  numbers,  of  beings  and  things 
always  good  and  beautiful,  just  as  they  are  not  in  this 
world  ?  Must  he  leave  it  always  for  the  prosy  essay 
or  the  stupid  ftovel  to  deal  blows  at  social  wrongs  and 
decay  ?  Trifle  thinks  so,  but  Tennyson  does  not,  and  so 
he  (the  poet,  not  the  critic)  writes  in  the  spirit  of  earn 
est  sadness,  not  "  strained  bitterness,"  painting  things 
as  they  are,  and  calling  them  by  their  right  names, 
that  the  world  may  know  them  and  abhor  them.  Is  it 
not  so  ? 

As  for  the  story  which  you  consider  so  shadowy  and 
not  "  very  English  English,"  that  is  simply  a  thread  on 
which  to  string  his  pearls.  It  is  suggested  rather  than 
told,  just  as  a  poet  ought  to  convey  his  story  to  the 
reader's  mind,  if  he  has  got  anything  else  to  say.  And 
if  you  will  study  "  Maud  "  a  little  more,  you  may  see 


80  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

with  what  consummate  art  the  story  is  suggested  ;  not 
merely  the  incident,  but  the  soul-life  of  the  hero,  the 
rise,  the  flow,  the  swell  of  the  passionate  current  in  his 
heart,  and  the  dark  tide  of  horror  and  despair  which 
flooded  it  after  the  ringing  of  that 

"  passionate  cry, 

A  cry  for  a  brother's  blood." 

But  let  us  talk  no  more  of  Tennyson,  now,  except 
to  commend  your  inclination  for  u  In  Memoriam." 
Happily  you  may  yet  think  better  of  "  Maud,1'  or  we 
think  less  than  we  now  appear  to.  In  either  case  the 
Laureate's  fame  will  scarcely  suffer. 

May  joys  cluster  about  Trifleton  House. 


TRIFLE-TON    PAPERS.  81 


IX. 


TRIFLETOX  HOUSE, 
In  time  of  the  fading  leaf. 

YES  !  the  leaf  is  fading.  The  days  are  become 
shortened.  The  sun  goes  earlier  to  his  rest.  The 
flowers  have  quite  passed.  The  golden  summer  of 
'55,  like  the  Paradise  of  Adam,  has  gotten  to  be  but  a 
reminder.  For  better  or  worse,  it  is  over;  and, — 
farewell  to  it.  It  will  never  return  ;  but  —  who  cares 
for  that  ?  The  lapse  of  time  is  nothing  to  a  soul  that 
is  buoyed  by  —  Faith.  '  Time,  like  opportunity,  is 
but  a  means.  Ends  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Their 
dealing  is  with  Eternity.  Confessedly,  though,  it  is 
somewhat  sad  at  Trifleton  House. 

Our  friends  have  come  —  and  gone.  It  is  well. 
What  has  been  uttered  and  thought  and  felt,  (for,  pos 
sibly,  among  the  many  who  have  been  at  Trifleton 
House  there  has  been  some  genuine  feeling,)  is  record 
ed  and  can  never  be  altered.  It  is  fixed  and  irrevoca 
ble.  It  is  past.  Our  friends  have  come  and  gone, 
and  our  best  wishes  and  prayers  are  with  them.  Will 
they  forget  Trifleton  House  ?  We  shall  see,  and  we 
shall  also  see  who  are  our  friends.  Real  affection  is 
demonstrative  and  sincere  attachment  cannot  but  be 
evidenced. 

6 


82  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

We  have  had  friends  of  both  sexes,  and  some  very 
near  and  dear  ones.  But  they  are  gone.  Will  they 
ever  return  ?  or  will  they  change  ?  Better  never  return 
than  change.  Absence  is  comparatively  nothing.  Death 
even  is  of  small  consequence,  for  we  look  to  a  meeting 
with  all  who  are  worthy  and  lovely  in  the  great  here 
after;  but  change  is  in  some  sense  formidable  and 
terrible  because  it  goes  to  prove  —  what  we  claim  not 
to  believe  at  Trifleton  House  —  that  human  nature  is 
rotten  and  selfish  ;  that  feeling  is  a  valueless  commo 
dity,  and  that  what  is  called,  in  these  latter  days, 
society,  blights  and  warps  and  poisons  all  that  is  sim 
ple  and  natural ;  for  show  me  a  change  of  genuine 
affection  that  cannot  be  traced  directly  or  indirectly  to 
the  thousand  and  one  conventionalisms  of  the  day,  and 
I  will  show  you  a  miracle. 

We  kiss  our  hands,  then,  to  those  who  shall  change. 
We  bid  them  good  bye  in  advance.  If  they  prefer  to 
pass,  they  can.  We  can  quite  afford  to  do  without 
them.  We  are  simple  and  unsophisticated  folk,  and 
have  no  feeling  to  waste.  We  have  lived  long  enough 
to  have  had  experience  with  all  sorts  of  people  and 
forms  and  notions,  and  we  are  quite  sick  of  affectation 
and  insincerity.  We  are  done  with  it  forever.  We 
profess  to  love  only  those  who  are  natural  and  genuine, 
and  real.  So,  all  of  you  in  the  world  (it  is  presumed 
the  whole  world  will  read  and  devour  this  letter)  who 
have  been  at  Trifleton  House,  take  warning ! 

Doubtless  it  is  a  little  dull,  at  present,  at  Trifleton 
House  !  But  I  have  no  intention  of  moping.  Stubs 
continues  faithful,  and  I  have  Pat.  still.  You  see  her 
once,  and  you  know  her,  as  you  know  the  sun  or  the 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  83 

stars  after  having  once  seen  them.  You  don't  require 
to  be  constantly  asking  yourself,  "  Is  this  the  person  I 
thought  I  knew  and  understood  ?  "  She  is  a.  fact, — 
a  fixed  fact ;  and  I  rather  like  facts.  Fictions  are  well 
enough  in  their  place,  but  they  only  illustrate.  They 
really  prove  nothing. 

In  plain  terms,  the  story  about  the  tomatoes  is  just 
this.  We  expected  enough  in  our  garden,  but  (confi 
dentially)  they  didn't  come.  So,  I  said  to  the  express 
man,  "  Won't  you  please  to  go  to  Mr.  Forestaller  and 
Treble  Profit  in  the  Quincy  Market,  and  get  the 
tomatoes.  I  don't  know  how  many,  but  get  quite  a 
number  of  bushels,  an  indefinite  quantity,  if  you  please, 
and  fetch  them  to  Trifleton  House,  because  Pat.  wishes 
to  c  put  'em  up  '  for  the  winter  !  " 

Such  were  my  orders  ;  but  the  expressman  didn't  go. 
And  when  he  did  go,  he  didn't  get  the  tomatoes,  and  I 
had  to  go  myself;  and  when  he  did  get  'em,  they 
were  in  a  process  of  decay  —  incipient,  but  progres 
sive.  The  expressman  (as  he  told  it  to  me)  remons* 
trated  with  the  marketman,  and  confided  the  fact  to  me 
that  that  functionary  was  a  "  devilish  fool !  "  I  give  you 
his  exact  words,  and  I  can't  help  it,  how  expressmen 
talk  ; —  but  the  indignant  marketman  hotly  exclaimed  : 
"  What  do  I  care  for  this  Trifle  ?  Tomatoes  is  to 
matoes,  and  if  a  man  buys  'em  to-day,  I  doesn't  guar 
antee  nothin'  'bout  their  keepin'  forever." 

This  severe  but  accurate  reasoning,  no  expressman 
could  have  the  stamina  or  the  authority  to  gainsay. 
Hence  we  had  the  tomatoes,  and  I  had  what  I  should 
be  inclined  to  call  in  English  to  you,  privately,  a 
minute  upbraiding  from  Pat. 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

"  Trifle,"  said  she,  "  here  I  have  been  '  tucked  up' 
these  two  days  (she  said  c  this  two  days'),  slighting 
that  baby,  and  making  blackberry  jam,  and  preserves, 
and  pickles,  and  waiting  for  those  tomatoes,  neglecting 
to  return  several  calls  which  I  owe,  not  to  mention  the 
buttons  on  your  shirts  and  strings  on  your  drawers, 
and  you  go  to  town  and  forget  all  about  the  tomatoes. 
But  next  winter  you'll  be  saying,  '  Why  didn't  we 
have  some  tomatoes  put  up  ?  '  That's  just  like 
men  !  " 

When  it  is  considered  what  a  difficulty  I  had  with 
the  expressman  ;  —  that  I  paid  several  dollars  for  the 
caws ;  —  that  I  lost  ten  dollars  by  being  away  from  my 
business  in  order  to  traffic  with  the  marketman  ;  — 
that  I  lost  my  tomatoes,  and  came  slightly  near  losing 
my  equanimity,  you  must  say  that  I  am  by  no  means 
weak  when  I  ask  for  your  sympathy.  But  what  did 
I  do  ?  Do  !  Why,  I  took  my  big  trunk  to  town, 
bought  a  fresh  lot  of  tomatoes,  had  them  checked  as 
baggage,  rode  from  the  depot  to  Trifleton  House  in  a 
carriage,  and  set  Pat.  to  crying  under  the  hallucination 
that  her  mother  was  coming  to  pay  her  a  visit.  And 
instead  of  being  tenderly  embraced,  I  was  saluted 
with  "  How  disappointed  I  am.  I  thought  you  were 
mother  !  "  But  it  is  to  be  always  borne  in  mind  that 
Pat.  is  so  exquisitely  simple. 

Our  Niagara  notion  has  exploded,  and  Stubs  and  I 
have  been  busy  with  our  guns.  We  have  exhausted 
considerable  ammunition,  and  with  about  the  same  de 
gree  of  success  as  has  distinguished  the  allied  forces 
before  Sebastopol.  Please  write  me  when  you  hear 
of  the  "  taking  "  of  that  interesting  place.  I  take  it,  it 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  85 

is  expected  "  very  soon,"  and  I  assure  you  we  expect 
considerable  game  "  soon." 

The  gaming  ground  is  many  miles  from  Trifleton 
House.  It's  a  most  remarkable  fact  that,  go  where 
you  will,  the  birds  are  always  several  miles  further  on. 
If  I  were  to  go  to  the  other  side  of  the  Rocky  Moun 
tains  for  them,  I  should  expect  to  be  told  by  the  oldest 
inhabitant  that  there  \vere  "  plenty  out  there  —  on  the 
flats  of  the  Pacific  !  They  go  there  to  feed  !  " 

Not  many  days  since,  on  one  of  our  gunning  excur 
sions,  Stubs  and  I  had  a  conversation  which  1  think 
ought  to  be  communicated.  We  had  just  set  our 
decoys,  which  pleasant  occupation  carried  us  both 
knee  deep  in  mud  and  water,  of  which  a  real  gunner 
should  never  be  afraid.  How  the  accomplished  Trifle 
looked,  I  cannot  tell.  I  know,  though,  that  Stubs  looked 
very  much  like  an  Irish  laborer  just  from  digging  in  a 
canal.  We  lighted  our  cigars  and  "  lay  low "  for 
"  black  breasters  "  and  "  yellow  legs." 

We  puffed  in  silence.  I  was  gazing  at  the  decoys, 
thinking  what  fools  the  birds  were  to  be  deceived  by 
them  (I  afterwards  discovered,  though,  that  they  were 
not  such  fools  as  I  took  them  for),  when  Stubs  in 
quired  — 

"  Trifle,  how  is  it  to  be  ascertained  if  a  woman 
really  loves  you  ?  Which  are  most  reliable,  her  words 
or  her  actions  ?  How  much  is  a  man  to  believe,  and 
how  much  to  doubt  ?  Can  you  ever  doubt  the  woman 
that  truly  loves  you  ?  Is  not  affection  so  involuntarily 
demonstrative  as  to  disarm  doubt  and  convert  suspicion 
even  into  trust  ?  Is  a  woman  justified " 

"  Down,  Stubs,  down  !     There  they  come  —  black 


86  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

breasters  ! "  (Here  followed  a  tremendous  duet  of 
whistling  for  the  birds,  which  I  can't  very  well  -put  on 
paper.)  "  They  see  the  decoys.  Now!  now!" 

Bang  !  bang  !  bang  !  ba  —  a  — 

"  Well,  by  Jupiter,  if  that  isn't  great  shooting.  Four 
barrels,  and  not  a  bird  !  " 

"  Why,  they  were  not  within  two  gun  shots,  Trifle  ! 

What  should  you  say  ?  Is  a  woman Confound 

my  gun  ;  one  barrel  didn't  go.  I  don't  see  what's  the 
matter  with  her  !  She  must  be  foul.  Ought  a  woman 
Pshaw ! " 

"  Set  a  new  cap,  man,  and  let  her  go.  Off  with 
her !  Don't  bother  forever.  When  you  have  a 

good  chance,  she'll  interfere Hark !  a  couple  of 

4  yellow  legs.'  They  answer  my  call.  If  I  can  get 
loaded." 

Ram,  ram  —  a  moment  and  my  caps  are  on  —  click, 
click  go  my  hammers.  They  come  like  the  wind. 
They  dart  down  towards  the  decoys  —  swoop  off. 
Whack  !  whack  !  this  side  and  that. 

"  I  took  'em  —  one  with  each  barrel !  What  do  you 
think  of  that  ?  " 

"Capital,  Trifle.  Now  load  up,  and  then  sit  down 
and  keep  a  little  cool,  if  you  can." 

I  did  so.  Stubs  discharged  his  recreant  barrel,  re 
loaded,  and,  if  I  remember  correctly,  we  both  exam 
ined  our  pistols  at  this  point,  to  see  what  condition 
they  were  in.  The  examination  proved  satisfactory, 
and  Stubs  continued  : 

"  Ought  a  woman  to  act  so  from  impulse,  as  to  make 
a  man,  who  acts  from  reason,  unhappy  ?  " 

"  Impulse  is  generous,  but  not  safe.     I  like  judg- 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  87 

ment  better.     But  then  I'm  an  old  married  man,  you 
know." 

"  Money  !  is  that  anything  ?  "  said  he.  (Here  let 
me  say,  to  satisfy  curiosity  on  that  point,  that  Stubs 
is  not  only  rich,  as  you  have  seen,  but  he  has  plenty 
of  money  ;  which  is  remarkable,  for  few  rich  men 
have  much  money.  It  is  chiefly  sterile,  barren  indi 
viduals  who  abound  in  that  article.) 

"  Nothing  more  than  a  means,  and  a  slight  one  at 
that,  with  sensible  people.  A  real  man  is  superior  to 
money  ;  and  all  circumstances  yield  to  him,  or  ought 
to.  Else  is  he  not  a  man.  A  man  will  always  have 
money  enough.  Money  is  much  with  women,  though. 
It  turns  their  heads " 

"Suppose  a  woman,  by  language  —  caresses  — 
warmth  —  fire,  indicated  that  she  was  yours ;  and 

then should  be  foolish,  cold,  irresolute,  and  almost 

despicable.     How  then  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  should  let  her  go.  But,  Stubs,  you  have 
never  told  me.  How  is  it  ?  are  you  really  engaged  to 
Pink  ?  " 

«  No." 

"  Rumor  says  so." 

"  Rumor  lies,  then." 

"  Have  you  ever  been  ?  " 

"No!" 

"  Do  you  expect  to  be  ?  " 

A  cloud  passed  over  his  face  ;  — passed,  you  will 
observe.  For  he  has  educated  himself,  and  has  nearly 
conquered.  He  is  quite  under  his  own  control. 

"  Let's  go  home,  Trifle.  There  are  no  birds.  A 
profitless  pursuit  is  enervating." 


88  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

Both  of  us  grew  silent  and  abstracted,  and  before 
long  we  went  home.  Stubs  came  with  me  to  tea.  As 
we  entered  the  hall,  the  musical  voice  of  Pat.  was 
heard  crying,  "  Tri-fle  !  "  —  "  Tri-fle  !  " 

"  Well,  Pat.  ?  " 

"  I've  got  a  letter  from  Pink.  She  is  coming  home 
soon." 

Almost  unconsciously  I  turned  to  Stubs.  He  was 
pale/and  shivering.  His  game-bag  had  dropped  from 
his  hand,  —  he  stood  like  a  statue. 

I  read,  most  critically,  this  letter  from  Pink.  It  in 
dicated  intellectual  capacity  —  nay,  more,  absolute 
talent.  It  was  pungent,  pointed,  at  times  satirical.  It 
hit  off  the  frivolities  of  Hotel  life  at  Newport.  It  was 
sufficiently  piquant  and  racy,  and  real  in  one  sense, 
but  it  was  not  womanly.  I  read  on  and  on,  till  my 
eyes  were  clouded  —  looking,  O,  how  eagerly !  for 
Pink's  heart.  It  was  not  there.  In  silence  and  in 
grief  I  folded  the  letter,  and  threw  it  back  to  Pat., 
saying  to  myself,  "  Alas,  for  Stubs !  How  he  must 
suffer  and  struggle,  to  have  mistaken  such  a  character 
as  this  for  his  ideal.  His  discipline  is  fearful ;  but  he 
will  conquer.  He  will  bend,  but  he  will  never  break." 
The  concluding  paragraph  of  the  letter  was  in  these 
words  : 

"  Love  to  Trifle  and  to  Stubs.  Is  the  latter  as  sober 
as  usual  —  not  to  say  forlorn?  How  different  he  and 
Stubs  are.  He  finds  something  to  laugh  at  in  every 
body  and  everything,  and  converts  everything  into 
ridicule.  He  is  too  funny.  He  is  the  exact  opposite 
of  Stubs.  What  a  figure  Stubs  would  cut  down  here  ! 
Are  we  never  to  laugh  ?  My  diamonds  have  evidently 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  89 

attracted  attention,  and  I  think  provoked  remark.  It's 
rather  inconvenient,  though,  this  appearing  in  them  at 
breakfast.  But  no  more. 

"  N.  B.  I  have  much  to  tell  you  when  I  return." 


90  TRIFLETON   PAPERS. 


X. 


THE  ARM  CHAIR, 
As  shines  the  harvest  moon. 

RoMPY-DoMPY,  the  pet  of  the  house,  has  gone  to 
pleasant  slumbers.  As  she  said  "  good  night,"  her 
large  blue  eyes  gazed  up  at  the  full  orbed  moon,  just 
rising  over  the  hill,  and  wondered  how  it  could  look  so 
bright,  and  just  get  up  when  she,  tired  of  play,  was 
ready  to  go  to  bed.  She  loved  the  moon  and  wished 
it  would  shine  in  the  day  time.  Alas  !  so  inopportune 
seem  many  pleasures  as  we  journey  on.  Happy  we, 
if,  like  the  sweet  child,  we  are  content  that  they  should 
come  to  others  though  we  enjoy  them  not.  She  has 
gone  to  the  land  of  pleasant  dreams,  and  may  angels 
guard  her  pillow. 

While  her  sweet  accents  and  merry  laugh  still  linger 
on  our  ear,  we  turn  to  you,  most  rare  Trifle,  for  a 
short  space,  cutting  even  the  delightful  moonlight, 
which  with  mystic  art  enhances  beauty,  and  conceals 
defects,  in  the  scenery.  Isn't  love  or  friendship  like 
the  moonlight,  softening  and  adorning  the  character  of 
those  we  prize,  throwing  a  shadowy  veil  over  the  de 
pressions  and  inequalities,  and  beautifying  with  a  silver 
light  the  prominent  and  striking  traits  ?  Few  are  the 
clear  sighted  friends  or  lovers  who  can  penetrate  the 
veil  into  the  recesses  where  hide,  sometimes  unprized 
loveliness,  and  sometimes  hideous  deformity. 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  91 

/ 

Speaking  of  friendship,  recalls  the  melancholy  in 
troduction  of  your  last  epistle.  We  should  rather 
think  that  you  had  a  little  suspicion  of  the  friendship 
of  some  of  the  visitors  at  Trifleton  House.  Else 
why  those  lamentations  in  advance,  over  the  loss 
of  friends  ?  To  be  sure  you  try  to  keep  "  a  stiff 
upper  lip,"  and  to  be  a  man  about  it,  and  profess  that 
Stubs  and  the  ever  faithful  Pat.  (our  choicest  wishes  to 
her)  are  enough  for  you.  But  you  don't  feel  quite  so 
well  about  it,  after  all;  —  there's  a  little  swelling  of 
the  heart,  a  little  regret  —  little  ?  nay,  we  cannot  meas 
ure  it,  —  because  you  fear  that  change,  in  some  one, 
which  is  worse  than  absence  or  death.  And  you  are 
right  —  your  heart,  not  your  professions  —  for  Pat.  and 
Stubs,  faithful  and  firm  though  they  be,  are  not  enough 
in  the  long  run,  and  even  the  self-reliant  Trifle  cannot 
afford  to  lose  friends. 

So,  pray  you,  keep  a  warm  welcome  at  Trifleton 
House  for  those  you  prize,  and  they  shall  not  change. 
Entertain  them  well,  flatter  them,  please  them  at  any 
cost,  and  they  shall  cling  to  you  —  as  long  as  the 
chains  of  hospitality,  flattery  and  pleasure  shall  endure. 
Is  it  possible  that  the  sagacious  Trifle,  with  all  his 
world  wisdom,  with  all  the  delights  of  Trifleton,  its 
productive  garden  and  its  wondrous  breakfasts,  has 
made  the  sad  mistake,  the  egregious  blunder  of  not 
so  entertaining  his  company  that  they  may  wish  to 
renew  the  pleasure !  Rural  influences,  again.  But 
courage,  man  ;  we'll  count  you  one  more  friend,  —  so 
long  as  you  write  letters,  tell  the  truth,  don't  dis 
parage  woman,  and  earnestly  cultivate  virtuous  plants 
in  the  garden  of  Trifleton  House. 


92  TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  ' 

It  is  just  as  we  expected  about  the  tomatoes,  when 
you  played  the  braggart  over  your  garden.  We  knew 
they  wouldn't  come,  and  you  confess,  at  last,  a  little 
ashamed,  that  they  "  didn't  come,"  —  neither  from  the 
bed,  nor  from  the  scattered  single  plants.  But  why 
didn't  you  come  to  us  in  your  dilemma  ?  —  We  could 
have  shown  you  tomatoes,  "  a  number  of  bushels," 
awaiting  a  summons  to  usefulness.  We  could  have 
slioivn  them  to  you,  but  —  are  you  fond  of  picking 
them  ? 

To  tell  the  truth,  fellow-sufferer,  we  sometimes  have 
a  grief  of  this  sort,  ourself.  Didn't  we  expect  to  have 
such  a  varied  and  startling  display  of  fruit,  this  year, 
that  we  should  throw  the  veterans  in  horticulture, 
Wilder,  Hovey,  Walker,  and  other  men  of  culture, 
utterly  into  the  shade  ?  Didn't  we  !  Hadn't  the  "  gold 
medal,"  "  the  society's  plate,"  the  "  first  premium," 
been  constantly  in  our  vision,  so  that  in  dreams  our 
very  back  was  broken  by  the  mingled  weight  of  great 
prizes  and  mammoth  apples  ?  Didn't  we  fancy  the 
commotion  among  presidents  and  committee  men,  the 
envious  look  of  distanced  competitors,  as  we  came 
along,  the  conquerer  on  this  field  of  peaceful  strife  ? 

Didn't  we  ? O,  didn't  we  expect  great  things  and 

get  confoundedly  disappointed  !  Well  —  we  are  pretty 
sure  we  did. 

Just  think  of  it ;  hear  our  woes  and  pity  them.  In 
the  first  place  some  envious  fellow  (we  don't  call 
names,  mind  you)  stole  our  best  and  biggest  Harrietts  ; 
—  we  trust  they  stuck  in  his  throat  with  all  their  obe 
sity.  In  the  next  place  a  mischievous  devil  in  the 
wind  plucked  our  largest  and  most  rotund  Flemish 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  93 

Beauties,  that  would  have  been  a  delight  to  the  art 
ists  of  Flanders.  Then  our  Van  Mons  Leon  le  Clerc 
—  what  bad  spirit  got  into  the  sap  of  that  tree  to  pre 
vent  its  nourishing  the  pears  ?  Perhaps  you  can  tell, 
philosophical  Trifle.  And  our  Duchesse,  why  that 
promising  tree  became  insolvent  and  only  yielded  us 
a  dividend  on  the  magnificence  which  we  expected, 
is  more  than  we  can  tell.  As  for  our  Belle  Lucra 
tive  and  Seckle,  by  some  means  Shrimp  contrived 
to  find  all  the  best  ones  on  the  ground,  among  his 
potatoes.  The  Golden  Beurre  of  Bilboa,  a  thrifty 
dwarf,  didn't  grow  tall  enough  to  keep  its  fruit  out 

of  the   reach  of  our  neighbor's  hens.     Our but 

enough  ;  — the  Doyennes  and  the  Beurres,  the  autumn 
pears  and  the  winter  pears,  the  melting  and  the  but 
tery,  the  whole  tribe  seemed  determined  that  we 
shouldn't  have  the  prize.  They  wouldn't  grow,  or 
if  they  did  they  would  fall  'or  be  eaten.  And  so, 
here  we  are,  no  more  distinguished  for  our  pears  than 
you  for  your  tomatoes. 

The  fact  is,  this  is  a  terrible  disappointment  to  hopes 
and  expectations  cherished  and  growing  (much  faster 
than  the  pears)  ever  since  blossom  time.  We  were 
as  confident  of  success  as  the  allies  before  Sebasto 
pol,*  —  and  we've  got  it  in  about  the  same  proportion. 

*  Sebastopol !  There  we  are  with  our  heels  tripped  up  again. 
The  Allies  ought  not  to  have  spoiled  our  comparison  in  such  an 
uncivil,  blustering  and  sanguinary  manner.  Sebastopol  is  taken! 
Do  you  hear  ?  You  asked  us  to  inform  you  when  that  "  inter 
esting  event  takes  place,"  and  so  we  do  now.  Sebastopol  has 
fallen,  and  you  can  condole  with  the  Russian  bear,  if  you  choose. 
Sebastopol  is  down,  and  so  are  our  hopes  of  the  first  prize. 


94  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

Isn't  this  an  affliction  to  grow  melancholy  under  ? 
Perhaps  Stubs  can  afford  some  sympathy.  Shrimp 
only  laughs  at  us,  —  but  we  shall  see  who  laughs  last 
when  he  digs  his  potatoes. 

The  Hards  have  returned  from  Newport,  Madame  a 
little  more  worldly  than  ever,  and  Miss  Bel  wretched 
ly  languid,  —  terribly  disappointed  perhaps,  because 
mamma's  manoeuvres  and  her  charms  did  not  succeed 
in  detaching  him  of  the  "  corn-colored  "  gloves  from 
your  friend,  the  brilliant  Pink.  Madame  thinks  that 
Pink  is  altogether  too  forward,  free  and  dashing,  too 
bold  to  be  pretty  and  too  pert  to  please.  Bel  wonders 
why  she  will  persist  in  that  outre  style  of  head  dress, 
and  thinks  her  wit  too  keen  and  unlady  like.  They 
are  agreed  that  she  can't  be  a  good  match  for  him. 
But  what's  to  be  done  about  it  now  that  "  Newport  is 
over,"  they  can't  quite  settle. 

As  for  young  Hard,  Abel,  he  would  have  been  in  a 
state  of  despair,  had  he  remained  a  week  longer  at 
Newport.  But  now  he  is  a  new  man.  He  has  actual 
ly  accomplished  something,  done  some  good  —  that  is, 
probable  good  —  having  saved  the  life  of  a  poor  wo 
man's  child.  The  little  fellow  had  fallen  from  the 
wharf,  and  Hard,  who  was  aboard  the  steamer  just  on 
the  eve  of  departure,  plunged  in  and  manfully  saved 
him,  while  others  looked  on  to  see  the  poor  boy  drown 
if  he  might.  The  dandies  shrugged  their  shoulders, 
the  young  ladies  were  in  ecstasies  over  "  the  hero," 
the  matrons  were  terribly  shocked  about  their  nerves, 
Madame  Hard,  herself,  was  supposed  to  faint,  though 
she  looked  ruddier  than  ever,  and  Miss  Bel  was  in  a 
pet  that  her  brother  should  get  himself  into  such  a 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  95 

horrid  plight.  But  there  were  two,  besides  the  little  boy, 
who  were  really  happy,  —  the  mother  and  Abel  Hard. 
The  former  came  rushing  down  the  wharf  just  as  the 
two  were  drawn  up,  almost  beside  herself  with  fear 
and  joy  ;  and  when  she  at  last  found  her  boy  was  liv 
ing,  she  divided  her  caresses  between  him  and  his  de 
liverer,  upon  whom  with  all  the  fervency  of  a  mother's 
heart  she  called  down  the  blessings  of  Heaven. 

It  was  "  a  scene  "  for  the  worldlings  on  the  boat, 
and  Hard  tells  me  he  could  perceive  the  different  emo 
tions  which  it  produced.  Some  —  ay,  the  many,  were 
disposed  heartlessly  to  laugh  and  joke  over  the  matter, 
but  here  and  there  was  one  in  whose  eyes  were  tears, 
bright  witnesses  to  the  existence  of  their  hearts.  These 
Hard  would,  at  the  time,  have  embraced  as  friends ; 
and  between  him  and  the  others  the  gulf  grew  wider. 
But  it  could  not  last  long  ;  the  steamer  must  depart  in 
spite  of  foolish,  drowning  little  boys,  or  rash  young 
men;  and  Hard,  who  had  no  idea  of  becoming  a  lion, 
merman,  or  other  wonderful  animal  in  that  company, 
insisted  upon  remaining.  And  so  the  steamer  with  its 
freight  of  fashionables  departed,  and  Madame  Hard 
and  Bel  —  much  to  their  chagrin,  for  they  had  reck 
oned  on  a  last  chance  of  attaching  the  "  corn-colored 
gloves"  to  Miss  Bel's  suite — went  ashore  with  their 
luggage  and  returned  to  the  Ocean  House. 

One  generous  action  leads  to  another.  Hard,  find 
ing  that  the  boy's  mother  was  poor,  took  measures  to 
relieve  her  wants  before  leaving  Newport,  the  day 
after  his  adventure.  And  not  content  with  that,  he  has 
just  taken  a  sudden  start  back  to  the  place  which  he  so 
recently  detested,  intending  to  do  something  more  for 


96  TRIFLETON   PAPERS. 

the  boy,  who,  he  says,  is  a  bright  little  fellow  and  is 
destined  to  better  things  than  his  circumstances  now 
promise.  And  this  is  Abel  Hard ;  a  month  ago  a  sad, 
unhappy  fellow,  who  looked  through  a  veil  of  gloom 
on  everything.  He  has  at  last  discovered  that  a  life 
of  idleness  is  a  curse  to  one  like  him,  and  that  he  must 
break  through  his  u  surroundings  "  that  his  generous 
impulses  and  real  worth  may  vindicate  themselves. 

Two  pretty  "  peeps"  you  and  Stubs  must  have  been, 
lying  in  wait  for  "  yellow-legs  "  and  "  black-breast- 
ers,"  with  foul  guns — fowling  pieces  you  call  them, 
do  you  not  ?  —  and  pistols.  Did  the  pistols  bring  down 
any  game  ?  Fine  sportsmen,  truly,  to  be  there,  out  on 
the  marshes,  discussing  female  character  and  thinking 
about  Pink !  Your  game  it  seems  was  far  away,  at 
tracted  by  such  a  decoy  as  you  did  not  set  —  though 
scarcely  better,  if  all  accounts  be  true.  As  for  Stubs, 
we  can  hardly  pity  him  ;  for  why  should  a  man  of  his 
sense,  a  man  of  sober,  quiet  thought,  noble  and  gener 
ous  withal,  suffer  himself  to  be  enslaved  by  a  selfish 
and  heartless  creature,  be  she  ever  so  beautiful  ?  He 
is  a  man  for  a  gentle  and  loving  nature  to  cling  to  and 
make  happy ;  an  oak  which  affords  a  sturdy  support 
whereon  the  tender  vine  may  grow,  making  the  rugged 
trunk  beautiful  with  its  foliage  and  flowers. 

The  days  shorten,  Trifle,  have  you  noted  it  ?  The 
sun  has  grown  chary  of  his  hours,  the  twilight  quickly 
fades  and  the  night  comes  on.  Long  evenings  are  in 
store  for  you  —  and  pray  what  shall  you  do,  you  who 
have  so  long  revelled  by  gas  light  in  city  amusements  ? 
Is  it  not  a  dismal  prospect  for  you,  these  long  evenings 
when  the  clouds  hang  heavily  over  the  earth,  and  the 


TRIFLETON   PAPERS.  97 

sere  leaves  are  damp  and  still,  and  the  crickets  have 
ceased  their  song,  and  the  wind  howls  and  moans 
through  the  naked  trees  ?  Ah,  let  not  the  darkness 
and  gloom  of  the  outward  world  then  settle  on  your 
heart.  But  may  the  warm  light  of  domestic  joy  shine 
round  the  hearth  of  Trifleton  House,  and  through  the 
clouds  gleam  ever  a  star,  to  guide  you  onward  and 
upward. 


98  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 


XI. 


TRIFLETON  HOUSE, 
In  time  of  the  "  Equinoctial." 

THE  Equinoctial  is,  indeed,  upon  us.  The  rain  is 
pouring  in  floods,  and  the  wind  screams  piteously 
among  the  trees.  My  peach  trees  have  yielded  to 
the  violence  of  the  storm  and  are  quite  prostrate,  and 
the  elm  by  the  south  parlor  window  reels  to  and  fro 
like  a  drunken  man.  The  pattering  of  the  rain  on 
the  windows,  —  the  rattling  and  "  snapping  "  of  the 
blinds,  —  the  mournful  voices  of  the  night  wind,  —  all 
together,  conspire  to  make  it  gloomy  enough  at  Trifle- 
ton  House. 

My  soul  is  sad  to-night,  and  the  mysteries  and  re 
sponsibilities  of  life,  the  associations  of  my  Past,  and 
the  uncertainties  of  my  Future,  press  heavily  upon  me. 
I  am  talking  with  myself,  and  I  discover  in  myself 
much  that  is  vague,  unreal,  and  difficult  to  understand. 
Sometimes  I  am  consoled  by  myself,  but,  oftentimes, 
much  disheartened.  In  this  particular,  doubtless,  I 
illustrate  my  kind. 

But  enough  of  this.  My  duty  is  to  recount  incidents. 
Listen ! 

The  sea  has  been  so  fierce  as  to  have  carried  away 
our  bathing  houses.  The  oldest  inhabitant  remem 
bers  nothing  like  it.  It  heaves,  and  toils,  and  screams, 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  99 

and  rages,  and  does  all  sorts  of  tragic  and'  mournful 
things. 

A  brave  thing,  a  fine  thing,  an  all  glorious  thing  is 
God's  mighty  sea !  It  never  grows  old.  It  has  con 
stantly  new  beauties,  grandeurs,  terrors  !  It  tranquil* 
izes,  alarms,  —  excites,  soothes, —  plays  and  fights  for 
ever,  and  forever,  and  forever.  Through  the  lapse  of 
Time,  —  quite  to  the  verge  of  Eternity,  —  up  to  the 
Judgment,  it  will  be  thus.  For  God's  powers  diminish 
not,  and  the  sea  is  one  of  His  chiefest.  Possibly  it  is 
His  right  arm.  Men  pass  over  it,  —  and  the  products 
of  their  toil.  Hence  is  commerce  ;  —  and  commerce 
influences,  and  largely  controls  the  world.  The  sea 
separates,  and  ties  the  nations. 

Again.  Pestilence  walks  on  the  land,  as,  for  ex 
ample,  in  case  of  Egypt  in  Pharaoh's  time  ;  as  in 
Norfolk  (oh,  pity,  pity,  Father  !)  or  Portsmouth  in  our 
own.  But  death  is  quite  at  home  on  the  sea ;  —  to 
wit,  case  of  Arctic,  case  of  President,  and  the  like. 
There  is  a  locus  selected  for  me  in  Mount  Auburn  ; 
but  don't  bury  me  there  !  Oh  no  !  Ye  future  gener 
ations,  I  give  you  notice,  and  I  request  you  !  If  prac 
ticable,  and  perfectly  convenient  and  agreeable  to  you, 
let  Trifle's  coffin  be  the  sea  !  The  sea  likes  him,  and 
he  likes  the  sea. 

Stubs  and  I  were  smoking  in  the  south  parlor.  It 
was  a  howly  night.  The  chaste  harvest  moon  was 
sailing  calmly  along ;  but  the  winds  were  abroad  and 
were  angry,  to  say  nothing  of  clouds  and  rain.  But 
from  our  south-east  window  the  lighthouse  was  palpa 
ble.  Its  revolving  light  gleamed  like  a  suggestive  and 
oft-recurring  hope. 


100  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

Pat.  was  "  up  stairs  "  with  Prig.  He  was  breathing 
heavily,  and  I  didn't  like  the  look  about  his  eyes. 
They  glared,  in  a  word.  I  said  to  Pat.,  "  The  Doctor 
should  come  !  "  But  she  said,  "  No  !  it's  nothing.  It 
will  pass."  So  I  was  comforted  and  went  down  to 
smoke  with  Stubs. 

"  Trifle,"  said  Stubs  (most  confidentially  and  rather 
demurely),  "  I  have  been  writing  verses  !  " 

Parenthetically  —  for  aught  I  know  —  he  had  been 
writing  poetry,  though  Pd  never  heard  of  his  capacity 
in  that  line.  The  capacity  of  a  talented  man  is  not 
perceptible  at  once;  it  is  ascertained,  —  and  by  de 
grees.  Fools  and  "  brilliant "  women  alone  show  all 
they  know  in  an  hour  —  or  in  less  time. 

"  Subject  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Look  !  "  he  replied. 

I  looked.  But  all  I  saw  was  the  passionate  sea. 
Away  in  the  distance,  however,  stood  the  lighthouse. 
It  touched  me  so  tenderly,  that  I  said, 

"  I  see  nothing  but  the  lighthouse.  How  sugges 
tive  it  is  of  hope  or  expectation.  Its  light  gleams, 
kindles,  burns.  It  goes  out,  though,  or  seems  to,  peri 
odically.  It  is  like  Faith.  It  fades  and  droops  and 
comes  near  dying,  if  you  please,  but  it  never  dies.  It 
shines,  —  shines  eternally.  Brighter,  or  dimmer,  now 
and  forever  it  shines,  and  shines,  and  shines  !  But 
read,  Stubs." 

He  read  as  follows  : 

I. 

Lo  !  where  the  Lighthouse  lifts  its  piercing  eye, 

And  gazes  on  the  horrors  of  the  storm, 
Calm  and  unmoved,  while  winds  rush  screaming  by, 

And  lightnings  flash  around  its  stately  form. 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

II. 

So  noble  spirits  look  upon  the  strife 

Of  human  kind  by  angry  passions  riven  ; 

And,  unconcerned  amid  the  storms  of  life, 
Serenely  wait  for  perfect  rest  in  Heaven. 

III. 

Oh,  grandest  Lighthouse,  founded  on  a  rock  !  — 
Oh,  largest  souls,  upheld  by  Faith  divine  !  — 

Superior  to  trial  and  to  shock, 
You  educate  weak  natures  likest  mine. 

I  made  no  comment,  but  the  verses  subdued  me. 
Had  they  been  written  by  some  one  else  than  Stubs, 
—  some  well-known  poet,  for  instance,  —  I  should 
have  said  they  were  very  natural  and  fine,  and  all  that. 
Indeed,  the  way  to  judge  of  poetry  is  not  from  the  ef 
fect  it  has  on  your  feelings,  but  from  the  fact  of  its 
having  been  written  by  this  or  that  poet  of  established 
reputation.  If  the  well-known  A.  B.  wrote  it,  it  must 
be  good,  as  a  matter  of  course.  If  C.  D.,  it  should  be 
unquestionably  very  fine. 

This  valuable  idea  was  one  I  acquired  when  I  lived 
in  town,  —  in  society  ;  and  I  have  no  notion  of  losing 
alt  the  useful  acquirements  I  made  there.  Hence  I 
smoked  on  in  silence,  without  a  word  of  praise  or 
criticism,  while  Stubs  proceeded  to  say  that  he  had 
another  piece,  in  a  somewhat  different  vein,  and  read  as 
follows : 

How  bitterly  I've  strove 

To  justify  my  fate  ! 
Oh  Heaven,  that  I  should  ever  love 

The  woman  that  I  hate  ! 


102  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

—  Down,  devilish  spirit,  down  !  — 
I'll  conquer,  or  I'll  die  ; 

Far  nobler  souls,  —  who've  won  their  crown,  — 
Have  suffered  here  than  I. 

Here!  —  this  is  not  my  home, 

This  place  of  rotten  lies  ; 
The  world  is  but  a  Styx  of  gloom, 

This  side  of  paradise. 

Nor  ferryman,  nor  boat 

I  need.     I'll  go  alone  ;  — 
With  but  myself,  —  Suspicion,  —  Doubt,  — 

I'll,  sorrowing,  press  on. 

—  Forbear,  rash  fool  !  thy  God, 
With  Faith,  can  bear  thee  up  :  — 

Christ  drooped,  but  —  kissed  the  rod,  — 
Drank,  —  drained  the  fearful  cup. 

Temptation  rends  thy  soul, 

But  discipline  is  sure  ; 
"While  calm  Religion's  sweet  control 

Alone  can  make  thee  pure. 

Down  on  thy  knees  to  prayer, 

Bid  earthly  hopes  farewell  ! 
And  cling  to  Heaven,  whose  blessings  are 

Dearer  than  tongue  can  tell. 

The  rich  tones  of  his  voice,  as  he  read,  fell  on  my 
ear  with  a  sort  of  fascination,  and  made  me  feel  as  I 
have  sometimes  felt  when  I  have  heard  a  voluntary 
played  on  an  organ  in  an  empty  church.  One  listens, 
but  with  a  feeling  of  sadness  and  desolation.  The 
deep-toned  cadences  seem  half  unreal,  and  you  ap 
preciate  them  only  from  the  lasting  effect  they  pro- 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  103 

duce.  They  sound  too  sad  to  be  pleasant  in  the  actual 
hearing. 

He  ceased  reading,  and  we  smoked  on  in  silence 
again.  Cigars  are  extremely  useful  in  such  cases. 

"  How  is  Pink  ?  "  said  I,  at  length,  and  very  abrupt 
ly.  "  Have  you  heard  from  her  or  written  to  her  re 
cently  ? " 

"  Both  ;  but  I  shall  discontinue  any  further  corres 
pondence  or  connection  with  her,"  he  replied,  and  then 
got  up  and  walked  about  the  room  nervously. 

I  scrutinized  him  carefully,  and  saw  that  he  looked 
haggard  and  wan.  I  felt  very  uneasy,  but  said  noth 
ing.  I  ask  you,  what  could  I  say  ? 

"  I  will  read  you  an  extract  from  her  last  letter,  and 
you  can  judge  for  yourself,"  he  said,  in  a  few  mo 
ments. 

His  hand  trembled  as  he  held  the  letter,  and  his 
voice  trembled  as  he  read  it. 

It  ran  as  follows :  "  It  is  quite  uncertain  when  we 
shall  return.  There  is  time  enough,  and  I  am  not 
over  anxious.  We  shall  come  via  New  York  city, 
where  we  intend  stopping  a  week  or  two.  The  Ts. 
insist  on  our  coming,  and  besides,  Pa  is  desirous  that  I 
should  see  Rachel,  who  is  just  about  to  appear.  We 
are  told  she  must  be  seen  several  times  to  be  appre 
ciated.  Your  lecture  was  quite  thrown  away  upon  me. 
We  can  never  agree.  Our  natures  are  too  dissimilar, 
and  you  regard  life  in  too  dingy  a  sort.  With  your 
permission,  I  shall  continue  what  you  call  '  the  pursuit 
of  pleasure,'  within  moderate  bounds.  My  hair  has 
riot  yet  begun  to  turn  gray,  and  I  have  no  intention, 
just  at  present,  of  going  into  a  convent,  or  on  a  mis- 


104  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

sion.  So,  Mr.  Stubs  ! How  intimate  I  am  with 

him,  is  a  question.  Would  you  really  like  to  know  ? 
Are  we  growing  a  little  jealous,  I  wonder  ?  The  tone 
of*  your  letter  does  not  please  me.  If  it  be  not  dic 
tatorial^  it's  pokish,  or  old  man-ish,  —  or  patriarchal,  or 
some  such  thing.  I  should  suppose  it  was  my  grand 
father  talking  to  me.  Good  bye  and  don't  mope  ! 

N.  B.  —  I  am  knitting  a  purse,  which  you  shall  have, 
perhaps,  if  you behave,  that  is." 

He  folded  the  letter  and  put  it  in  his  pocket.  A 

long  pause. The  silence  was  becoming  painful, 

and  I  ventured  to  remark,  finally, 

"  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Pink  is  sincerely  at 
tached  to  you.  She  is  frivolous,  but  she  will  improve. 
She  is  generous  at  heart,  and  her  nature  is,  after  all,  a 
deep  one.  She  is  too  impressible,  though,  arid " 

He  interrupted  me,  furiously,  notwithstanding  my 
words  evidently  carried  some  balm  to  his  hurt  spirit, 
with 

"  Her  generosity  !  Her  heart ! "  —  with  a  most  bitter 
emphasis  on  the  last  word.  "  She  was  born  without  a 
heart.  I  have  wasted  my  nature  on  her  long  enough, 
and  now  she  may  go  —  forever  !  " 

I  had  never  known  him  so  excited  before,  and  it  was 
terrible  to  see  this  strong  man  thus  stricken  with  pas 
sion. 

"  I  have  suffered  in  silence,"  he  continued,  "  and 
without  a  murmur,  the " 

When  hark  !     Pat.  called  loudly  and  sharply, 

«  Come  up  here,  Trifle  !  —  quick  !  " 

I  rushed  up  stairs,  and  it  was  as  I  had  all  along  ap 
prehended.  Prig  was  in  convulsions.  He  tossed  his 


TRIFLETON   PAPERS.  105 

little  arms  wildly  about  and  moaned  most  piteously. 
I  did  what  I  could.  Pat.  and  Mary  hastened  to  get  him 
into  a  warm  bath,  and  I  started  for  the  Doctor.  I 
looked  in  at  the  parlor  for  Stubs.  His  head  was  buried 
in  his  hands.  He  had  forgotten  me  and  mine.  One 
thought  was  driving  him  mad. 

1  told  him  what  had  happened.  What  an  instanta 
neous  change  !  he  lived  out  of  himself  again,  and  thus 
became  himself  again. 

"  Stay,"  said  he,  and  do  what  you  can.  I  will  go. 
Bob  can  harness  Kate  in  a  few  minutes.  It's  but  a 
mile,  and  I  will  have  the  Doctor  here  in  a  half  hour  or 
less." 

He  pressed  my  hand,  and  through  the  wind  and  the 
rain  departed.  No  strongest  Hercules  or  Goliath  could 
have  stopped  him,  and  I  let  him  go  ;  and  I  thought  to 
myself  as  I  had  thought  often  before,  how  eagerly  and 
how  gratefully  I  loved  him. 

The  Doctor  came  and  said  the  trouble  was  in  the 
brain.  It  was  too  large,  &c.  .  .  . 

We  shuddered. 

The  next  day  it  was  the  same,  and  worse.  And  the 
next.  —  Dear,  poor  little  Prig !  We  had  ice  about  his 
head  and  temples  constantly,  and  that  was  all,  princi 
pally.  Said  I,  "  Give  him  something  or  he  will  die  ! " 
The  answer  was,  "  It  would  kill  him." 

I  rushed  to  Boston  for  a  consulting  physician.  He 
came  and  —  went. 

There  was  no  hope.  This  I  gathered  from  myste 
rious  looks,  anxious  expressions,  &c.  No  such  thing 
was  said.  It  was  plainly  hinted,  though. 

"  The  result  is  in  His  hands,  then,"  I  reflected  ;  and 


106  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

I  thought  I  would  fall  back  upon  my  Faith,  but  I  had 
none.  1  was  neither  hopeful  nor  submissive. 

I  went  out  into  the  garden.  The  dead  leaves  were 
all  around,  and  I  said  to  myself,  "  What  a  miserable 
world  this  is  !  " 

Some  inward  voice  appeared  to  reply,  and  this  con 
versation  ensued : 

"  The  world  is  better  than  you  think." 

"  I  deny  it.  There  is  my  best .  friend,  who  has 
talents,  and  virtues,  and  character,  and  station,  and 
wealth,  —  and  what  are  they  all  ?  He  is  perfectly 

wretched,  and  I am  to  lose  my  boy.  But  I  will 

not.  I  will  keep  him.  I  want  him.  He  is  my  chief 
hope.  If  he  dies,  my  heart  will  break.  Oh,  it's  a 
splendid  world !  " 

"  Your  friend's  character  is  not  complete,  nor  is 
yours.  You  are  proud  and  rebellious,  and  it  may  be 
you  are  to  be  '  sifted  like  wheat.'  Who  are  you  that 
you  should  not  suffer  ?  Your  boy  !  —  He  is  not  yours, 
and  never  was.  Take  care.  He  is  passing  rapidly. 
Go  and  save  him,  if  you  can.  You  are  simply  a  weak, 
feeble  fool,  and  have  regarded  '  your  boy,'  as  you  call 
him,  with  too  much  complacency.  You  have  built  too 
many  castles  about  developing  his  mind,  —  moulding 
him,  —  impressing  on  him  your  own  imperfect  nature, 
and  habitudes  of  thought,  feeling  and  action,  and  re 
producing  yourself  in  him.  One  such  as  you  is  quite 
sufficient.  It  is  probable  he  will  die,  and  you  would 
better  be  humble  and  penitent,  and  ask  God  to  forgive 
your  sins,  and  surrender  him  and  yourself  into  His 
keeping.  You  will  find  it  very  hard  and  very  useless 
to  '  kick  against  the  pricks  ! '  " 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  107 

I  could  bear  this  no  longer,  and  I  returned  to  the 
house.  As  I  went  in,  little  White-y  came  skipping 
towards  me,  and  tenderly  kissed  my  hand.  He  seemed 
to  indicate  that  he  missed  Prig  from  the  garden,  and 
wished  to  sympathize  with  me.  It  made  my  heart 
ache  to  see  him. 

I  went  to  Prig's  chamber.  I  had  left  Pat.  there, — 
and  Stubs,  for  a  moment,  bathing  the  dear  boy's  tem 
ples.  Nobody  else. 

There  was  another  person  just  flying  into  the  room 
before  me,  —  unannounced.  It  was  Pink.  With  her 
usual  precipitancy,  she  rushed  into  Pat.'s  arms,  and 
with  a  passionate  burst  of  tears,  exclaimed, 

"  My  poor,  darling  Pat.,  how  my  heart  bleeds  for 
you.  Can  you  forgive  me  ?  I  hate  and  despise  my 
self  for  being  away  at  such  a  time  !  Why  did  you 
not  send  for  me  ?  It  was  because  you  considered  me 
too  unworthy." 

And  she  wept  Utterly. 

Pat.  soothed  and  comforted  her,  and  they  mingled 
their  tears  together. 

Prig  lay  perfectly  senseless. 

Stubs  stood  speechless. 

Again  I  said  to  myself,  "  What  a  world  this  is  !  " 


108  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 


XII. 


THE  ARM-CHAIR, 
In  the  Indian  Summer. 

OUR  hearty  sympathies  are  with  you,  afflicted  Trifle, 
in  the  sorrows  which  shadow  your  dwelling.  Happy, 
indeed,  are  you,  that  through  the  clouds  shines  so 
brightly  the  sun  of  Friendship,  —  that  you  have  the 
large-hearted,  firm  and  generous  Stubs  ready,  \vith 
something  more  than  words  to  aid  you.  Ah,  Heaven 
be  with  you  through  the  long,  anxious  hours  that  come 
and  go,  with  solemn  steps  and  slow,  in  the  dark,  silent 
room.  God  be  with  you  and  your  cherished  hopes ! 

Your  letter  recalls  a  time,  when  one  to  us  as  dear 
as  Prig  to  you,  struggled  through  the  dark  cloud  of 
sickness.  The  night  came  on  black  with  thick  vapors ; 
but  darker  was  the  gloom  of  doubt  and  dread  within 
the  dim,  still  chamber,  where  the  little  sufferer  gasped. 
Hope  sunk,  and  flickered  —  rose  and  sunk  again,  till 
it  became  fear  and  dread.  Oh !  we  remember  well 
how,  as  the  gloom  fell  like  a  pall  upon  that  vanishing 
hope,  we  drew  aside  the  curtain  to  look  out  upon  the 
night,  —  and  what  a  thrill  the  ray  of  a  star,  beaming 
through  a  broken  cloud,  shot  to  our  heart.  It  was  like 
a  messenger  from  Heaven  in  answer  to  the  prayerful 
agony  of  the  hour,  and  it  brought  peace  and  hope  and 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  109 

gratitude.  The  morning  came  at  last.  Night  fled 
before  the  approaching  day,  and  with  it  fled  the  clouds, 
and  the  fears  that  were  darker  clouds  upon  the  heart. 
The  morning  came ;  morning  upon  the  hill-tops  and 
in  the  golden  sky,  —  morning  in  our  hearts  and  over 
the  dear  child,  —  morning  and  thanksgiving. 

And  so  Trifle  would  be  buried  in  the  sea.  Have 
you  calculated  that  it  is  any  better  to  become  "  food 
for  fishes  "  than  "  food  for  worms  "  ?  Do  you  like 
the  picture  which  Clarence  painted  ?  — 

"  a  thousand  fearful  wrecks  ; 

A  thousand  men,  that  fishes  gnawed  upon  ; 

Wedges  of  gold,  great  anchors,  heaps  of  pearl, 

Inestimable  stones,  unvalued  jewels, 

All  scattered  in  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

Some  lay  in  dead  men's  skulls;  and,  in  those  holes 

Where  eyes  did  once  inhabit,  there  were  crept 

(As  'twere  in  scorn  of  eyes)  reflecting  gems, 

That  wooed  the  slimy  bottom  of  the  deep, 

And  mocked  the  dead  bones  that  lay  scattered  by." 

Have  the  treasures  of  the  deep  such  a  hold  upon  your 
fancy,  or  upon  your  habits  of  trade,  that  you  would 
fain  sleep  the  last  sleep  in  that  slimy  bed  where  such 
things  are  ?  And  then  the  Ocean's  mighty,  restless 
currents,  look  you  !  would  you  have  them  swinging 
and  tossing  your  worn  body  to  and  fro  forever  ?  The 
surface  of  the  sea  hath  many  voices  as  its  waves 
break  and  roar  ;  a  solemn,  grand,  majestic  music  along 
its  beaches  and  its  hollow  rocks.  But  in  those  depths 
the  echoes  come  not,  nor  near  or  distant  harmonies, 
but  silence  and  motion  forever. 

Let  us  say  rather  "  Dust  to  dust,"  far  in  the  green 
retreat  of  the  wooded  sanctuary,  where  the  sun's  rays 


110  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

may  sometimes  softly  linger  on  the  grassy  slope,  and 
where  the  deep-toned  forest  organ  sounds  its  soft  or 
grand  and  ever-changing  symphonies,  and  solemn 
requiems  swell  and  die  forever.  But  what  matters  it 
whether  your  decaying  body  rot  in  the  "  slimy  bot 
tom  "  of  the  deep  sea,  or  ours  crumble  at  the  roots  of 
the  giant  oak,  if  our  souls  shall  have  passed  the  dark 
portal,  with  heavenward  hope  and  faith,  into  the  bright 
fields  beyond  ? 

Stubs  —  well,  we  pity  him  ;  but  let  him  not  know  it, 
lest  he  scorn  our  sympathy.  How  deeply  must  run 
the  current  of  his  love  ;  else  such  a  nature  as  his 
could  scarcely  have  been  moved  to  verse-writing,  and 
poetry  had  found  no  expression  through  him.  But  as 
it  is,  the  secret  depths  of  his  heart  have  been  brought 
to  the  surface,  in  the  earthquake  struggle  which  rends 
it,  and  feelings  which  were  scarcely  acknowledged  to 
himself  have  become  active,  demonstrative.  With  the 
feelings  is  aroused  the  talent  to  express  them;  — 
how  well,  let  those  fine  lines  on  the  lighthouse  tes 
tify. 

The  stately  Autumn  marches  slowly  on  with  his 
rich  burden  of  sheaves  and  fruits,  and  the  forests  have 
put  on  their  gorgeous  robes  —  flung  out  their  banners 
of  crimson  and  gold,  to  gleam  in  the  clear  sunlight 
of  the  year's  holidays.  O,  ho\v  rich  in  beauty  and 
how  rich  in  thought  is  the  bright  seuson  of  the  ripened 
leaf! 

Behold  the  varied  tints  of  the  woods,  —  the  ruddy 
brown  of  the  oak,  the  scarlet  of  the  maple  beside  the 
deep  green  of  the  pine,  the  deeper  crimson  of  the 
sumach  contrasting  with  the  emerald  sward,  the  yellow 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  Ill 

of  the  elm  and  birch  and  the  light  brown  of  the  walnut, 
all  mingled  in  rich  masses,  such  as  the  painter  in  vain 
may  attempt  to  imitate.  And  over  all  is  the  soft  sun 
light  of  a  mild,  clear  day  of  the  Indian  summer.  Such 
beauty  ever  tempts  us  forth  to  gaze,  and  to  receive  the 
gentle  influences  that  steal  through  eye  and  ear  into 
the  heart. 

But  let  us  narrate.  It  was  such  a  day,  just  gone  by, 
that  we  visited  a  spot  whose  beauty  has  lingered  in 
our  memory  from  childhood.  On  the  one  side,  the 
many-tinted  woods  half  circled  a  quiet  retreat  where 
the  turf  lay  partly  in  sunlight,  partly  in  shadow ;  and 
on  the  other  were  groups  of  noble  trees  in  brilliant 
array,  standing  on  little  knolls  whose  sides  sloped  down 
to  the  still  water's  edge.  Beneath  one  of  these  groups 
were  cattle  standing,  or  reclining  in  picturesque  po 
sitions.  Ah,  it  was  such  a  scene  as  Poussin  would 
have  loved,  and  such  as  you  might  wish  for  a  com 
panion  to  that  "  still  life  "  of  Durand. 

We  were  delighting  in  these  untiring  beauties,  as 
you  delight  in  the  sea.  But  an  indistinct  murmur  of 
voices,  swelling  once  into  a  musical  laugh,  told  us  we 
were  not  alone,  and  must  therefore  indulge  in  no  mad 
transports.  So  we  watched  to  see  the  excitement  of 
others,  whoever  they  might  be,  who  evidently  enjoyed 
the  same  delicious  scene.  And  there  they  were,  in  a 
lovely  spot,  leaning  upon  the  rustic  fence  that  kept 
those  cattle  subjects  from  straying  out  of  the  land 
scape.  They  were  a  man  and  a  woman  —  a  lady  and 
a  gentleman,  if  you  please.  Her  broad-brim  summer 
hat  shaded  a  face  whose  half  seen  profile  appeared 
sufficiently  beautiful  for  the  elegant  form  which  sup- 


112  TRIFLETON   PAPERS. 

ported  it.  v  He  was  like  a  hirsute  foreigner,  a  little 
outre  in  dress,  but  with  an  eye  and  brow  that  never 
belonged  to  the  dandy,  nor  to  assuming  mediocrity. 
He  was  an  artist,  and  with  sketch-book  and  pencil  he 
was  rapidly  transferring  this  "  study  from  nature," 
while  she  watched  with  interest  the  work,  and  listened 
to  words  which  were  evidently  eloquent. 

Incontinently  we  left  the  objects  of  our  recent  admi 
ration —  the  trees  and  the  cattle  —  to  the  artist,  and 
made  the  twain  our  study.  We'll  even  confess  that 
we  approached  them  —  stole  nearer  to  them  unseen  — 
to  obtain  the  same  point  of  view,  of  course.  Passing 
around  those  sumach  trees  and  birches,  we  came  to  a 
nearer  and  full  view  of  them.  And  lo  !  we  found  the 
artist  was  none  other  than  Umber,  born  hereabouts  ;  a 
strange  boy,  who  would  make  pictures  instead  of 
money,  who  went  but  little  better  than  penniless  to 
Italy  some  years  ago,  for  the  purpose  of  studying  art 
instead  of  buying  macaroni,  and  who  has  of  late  re 
turned  with  just  about  as  much  money  as  he  carried, 
but  with  a  rich  store  of  knowledge,  high  ideas,  skill 
and  great  resolutions,  —  returned  in  truth  a  man  and  a 
true  artist. 

We  could  hear  him  now.  We  had  some  misgivings  at 
playing  the  listener,  but  —  never  mind.  He  was  gaily 
discoursing  of  artist  life  in  Rome  and  Florence,  now 
and  then  recalling  a  picture  suggested  by  the  scene  he 
was  sketching.  His  tones  were  rich  and  his  words  and 
manner  fascinating  —  as  we  saw  clearly  by  the  atten 
tion  of  his  companion.  He  was  painting  in  glowing 
colors  his  sojourn  in  the  land  of  art,  when  he  was  inter 
rupted  by  an  abrupt  and  hasty  question. 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  113 

"  Had  you  no  regrets  for  home  ?  " 

"  Home  !  —  ha,  ha !  —  my  home  was  where  my  pack 
or  easel  was,  —  some  time  in  Rome,  once  on  Mont 
Blanc,  in  the  crater  of  Vesuvius,  anywhere." 

"  But  friends  ?  " 

"I  did  make  friends  with  two,  from  whom  I  re 
gretted  to  part,  as  I  don't  know  that  I  have  another 
friend  in  the  world.  One  was  a  sorrowful  sculptor 
from  Germany,  the  other  a  pretty  flower-girl  in 
Rome." 

"  A  flower-girl  !  " 

"  Beautiful  as  Hebe." 

"  O,  doubtless  !  — and  as  fit  to  be  waiting  maid." 

There  was  a  little  tremulous  scorn  in  the  words,  and 
the  speaker  turned  hastily  away  from  the  artist  so  as 
to  bring  her  face  fully  before  us.  Was  it  possible  !  — 
It  was,  in  truth,  Bel  Hard,  and  her  cheek  was  suffused, 
and  there  was  just  the  springing  of  a  tear  in  her  eye, 
that  really  flashed.  Yes,  it  was  the  languid,  fashion 
able  Bel  Hard.  We  shall  have  plenty  of  larks  now, 
for  the  skies  are  about  to  fall ! 

With  a  hasty  step  she  passed  on,  leaving  us  unno 
ticed.  Umber  had  started  as  she  spoke,  looked  up, 
and  as  she  went  away,  arose  from  his  seat  and  gazed 
after  her  as  if  doubtful  whether  to  follow  or  not. 
Then  he  seated  himself  again  and  went  to  work.  But 
he  did  not  look  at  the  landscape.  We  approached  him 
cautiously,  and  looking  on  his  work  beheld  a  lively 
sketch  of  Bel  Hard.  So  —  her  face  lingers  long  in 
your  memory,  Sir  Artist. 

Umber  and  Bel  had  been  playmates  years  ago, 
though  he  was  a  poor  woman's  son.  But  in  her  teens 


114  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

Bel  must  aquire  "  accomplishments,"  in  order  that 
Madame  might  accomplish  her  ends  ;  and  Umber  by 
hook  or  by  crook,  went  to  Italy.  A  man  of  genius 
and  of  travel,  he  is  not  to  be  passed  by  now,  for  wealth 
can  patronize  art,  and  not  degrade  itself.  Besides, 
Abel,  who  is  utterly  regardless  of  propriety,  esteemed 
his  old  friend.  So  Umber,  fresh  from  Italy,  is  a  wel 
come  visitor  at  the  Hard  mansion,  —  Umber,  the  poor 
artist,  is  simply  patronized. 

"  A  beautiful  scene  this,  Umber." 

He  started,  and  looked  at  us  askance,  and  then  a 
slight  smile  curled  his  moustache  — 

"  Nature  is  always  beautiful." 

"  But  hereabouts  nature  is  too  often  hidden  by  tawdry 
and  senseless  ornament." 

"  Still,  nature  is  underlying." 

"  Remove  the  ornament,  and  you  have  but  a  barren 
soil." 

"  Perhaps,  —  and  haply  one  wherein  may  grow  the 
loveliest  flowers." 

He  put  up  his  book  and  pencils  abstractedly,  and 
mused  awhile  as  we  turned  homewards.  His  thoughts 
were  not  of  art.  But  he  soon  broke  the  spell,  and 
turning  again  towards  the  scene  he  had  been  sketching, 
exclaimed  with  artist  warmth  — 

"  Italy  can  boast  of  nothing  equal  to  this,  either  in 
nature  or  art." 

And  then  he  discoursed  on,  till  we  wondered  not 
that  under  the  influence  of  such  talk  even  the  languor 
of  Bel  Hard  was  dispersed.  Bel  Hard,  —  perhaps  we 
have  done  her  injustice.  What  should  she  do  with  a 
heart,  though  ?  Have  not  fashion  and  her  practical 
mother  trained  her  to  do  without  one  ? 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  115 

But  Abel  Hard.  He  has  been  to  Newport  to  look 
after  his  protege,  and  returned  in  a  more  sad  and  ner 
vous  mood  than  ever.  He  had  made  a  discovery 
which  threw  him  entirely  off  his  balance,  if  his  mind 
could  ever  be  said  to  possess  such  a  blessing.  The 
mother  of  the  unfortunate  little  diver  had  been  a  ser 
vant  in  the  family  of  her  father.  Misfortune  had  over 
taken  him,  and  he  had  come  to  America.  For  a  few 
days  Hard  was  in  miserable  doubt,  but  at  last  he  set 
out  for  the  prairies  in  search  of — what  he  expects 
may  prove  his  happiness.  An  almost  hopeless  search  ; 
but  we  shall  see.  Madame  is  excessively  annoyed,  — 
possibly  she  may  yet  find  more  cause. 

As  evening  set  in,  Umber  made  his  appearance  in 
our  library  —  a  little  abstracted  at  first,  but  he  soon 
took  us  to  the  Vatican.  They  talk  of  the  Vatican  at 
the  mansion  now  ;  and  Madame  has  hunted  up  Mur 
ray's  Guide-book,  which  Abel  had  brought  home. 
When  one  patronizes  an  artist  from  Rome,  one  must 
not  be  a  fool.  Bel  has  been  reading  Hillard's  "  Six 
Months  in  Italy."  She  borrowed  ours,  when  Umber 
first  made  his  appearance,  and  she  still  keeps  it. 

But,  most  patient  Trifle,  we  weary  you.  Silence  is 
in  the  house,  silence  and  sleep.  Darkness  is  over  the 
earth,  darkness  and  rest.  Here  and  there  through 
the  broken  clouds  gleams  a  star.  May  it  watch 
over  the  rest  and  peace  of  the  dwellers  in  Trifleton 
House. 


116  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 


XIII. 


TRIFLETOX  HOUSE,  > 

As  the  Indian  Summer  advances.  } 

THE  storms,  for  a  season,  have  ceased,  and  the 
serene  and  beautiful  days  pass  on.  Let  those  who 
will,  talk  of  the  Spring,  —  the  balmy  Spring  I  believe 
it  is  called,  —  (are  there  any  East  winds  in  Spring 
time  ?)  but  Trifle  is  content  with  the  Fall.  It  is  quite 
in  keeping  with  his  nature.  It  is  a  season  of  decay, 
and  sadness,  if  you  please,  but  with  what  a  glory  it  is 
crowned  !  Sunlight  shines  upon  the  hills  —  a  token  of 
promise.  Now  suggests  Hereafter.  The  nights  are 
longer  and  the  'winds  are  chiller,  but  the  days  are 
clothed  with  a  beauty  that  is  persuasive  and  sugges 
tive.  It  is  touching  as  the  grace  and  tenderness  of  a 
farewell,  and  seems  to  say,  "  I  am  lingering  while  I 
may,  because  I  know  I  must  pass.  But  it  will  be 
but  for  a  season.  The  bright  days  will  come  again. 
There  is  a  Death,  but  there  is  also  a  Resurrection." 

But — of  Prig!  It  is  all  over  with  him.  Yes,  my 
Editor,  it  is  over.  Tell  every  body  you  meet,  "  it  is 
over  !  "  Inform  the  world.  Wherever  your  paper  is 
read,  —  through  the  length  and  breadth  of  our  country 

—  on.  the  'change  and  at  the  hearthstone  —  by  the  land 
and  over  the  seas  —  by  mail  and  by  telegraph  —  by 
words  written  and  spoken,  convey  the  intelligence,  the 

—  glad  intelligence,  "  it  is  over  "  with  Prig. 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  117 

He  lives ! ! 

He  rallied  as  rapidly  as  he  declined. 

Politics  are  to  be  forgotten.  Who  shall  be  elected 
Governor,  is  of  small  consequence.  A  more  important 
thing  is  to  rejoice  with  Pat. 

If  you  could  see  her,  you  would  forget  everything 
else  —  and  every  body ;  even  Mrs.  Editor,  and  all  the 
embryo  Editors,  for  a  season.  Why  should  you  not  ? 
She  is  excellent  among  women.  She  is,  in  fact  a— 
woman. 

She  loves  Prig  more  than  ever.  Why  ?  He  has 
made  her  suffer. 

Hark  !  —  and  hold  your  breath.  Water  was  form 
ing  on  his  brain.  They  said  so  —  the  Doctors.  He 
was  to  die.  They  said  so. 

Pink  was  sitting  by  him  in  despondency.  She  was 
touched  to  the  quick,  and  I  detected  her  heart.  It 
seems  she  has  one.  I  was,  somehow,  cool  and  ex 
perimental.  Prig  lay  with  his  eyes  wide  open.  I 
waved  my  hand  before  them.  He  made  no  sign. 
1  lifted  his  arm,  and  dropped  it.  It  felt  like  lead.  I 
turned  his  head  this  side.  He  did  not  move.  —  That. 
The  result  was  the  same.  There  was  no  sign  of  life. 
I  gave  him  up  —  almost. 

It  was  then  that  Pat.  came  to  me.  With  moist  eyes 
and  a  trembling  voice,  and,  withal,  very  incoherently, 
she  asked  me  if  I  had  "  any  objections "  to  sending 
for  a  minister  and  having  him  "  baptized"  I  had  op 
posed  it  previously  because  I  don't  like  squalling  babies 
in  church.  I  wished  to  wait  till  he  was  a  boy.  She 
had  known  me  six  years,  and  yet  she  asked  this  ques 
tion.  You  have  known  me  four.  Are  you  not  sur 
prised  ? 


118  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

The  minister  came.  My  mother  and  my  sister  hur 
ried  from  town ;  my  sister's  husband  and  my  brother's 
wife.  The  last  mentioned,  indeed,  has  been  full  of 
kindness  and  sympathy  from  the  first  moment  of  Prig's 
illness,  and  has  insured,  forever,  Pat.'s  gratitude  and 
mine. 

She  could  quite  appreciate  our  feelings,  for  she  has 
lost  a  boy  of  her  own,  her  first  born. 

Friends  came  and  neighbors.  How  and  why,  I 
know  not.  But  they  stole  in  like  shadows,  and  as  I 
looked  on  them,  and  they  on  me,  I  noticed  that  their 
eyes  fell.  The  women  among  them  turned  away  their 
faces,  and  I  could  hear  their  sob's. 

Stubs  stood  like  a  guardian  angel  at  the  door,  and 
Pink  sat  by  the  bedside  holding  the  hand  of  Pat.  in  her 
own.  He  would  scarcely  have  known  her.  She  looked 
like  one  who  had  been  chastened  and  subdued  —  who 
had  struggled  with  herself,  and,  at  least  for  the  time, 
conquered.  A  little  sick  child  that  she  loved  had  done 
more  for  her  than  Stubs  and  all  the  rest  of  the  world. 
He  had  made  her  think,  and  feel. 

Last  of  all  came  in  the  servants  —  our  own,  and 
those  of  our  neighbors  who  had  played  with  the  boy  at 
intervals,  and  had  become  interested  in  him  and  at 
tached  to  him.  It  was  current  that  he  was  to  die  in 
a  few  brief  hours,  and  they  came,  partially  from  curi 
osity  I  presume.  They  were,  most  of  them,  strangers 
to  us,  but  they  were,  all  of  them,  in  tears. 

Prig  lay  with  his  eyes  wide  open,  but  he  could  not 
see,  nor  hear,  nor  speak,  nor  feel.  He  was  like  one 
dead,  except  for  the  feeblest  and  faintest  beating  of  his 
pulse.  He  didn't  move,  and  he  couldn't. 

"  Let  us  pray  !  "  said  the  minister. 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  119 

He  prayed. 

1  stood  erect,  with  my  eyes  fixed  on  my  child.  I 
looked  upon  him  as  long  as  I  could  see.  The  minister 
prayed,  but  I  was  talking  all  the  time,  with  some  one 
who  was  not  there,  and  yet  was  there. 

"  The  offering  is  a  poor  one  ;  such  a  mere  fragment 
of  his  life.  It  is  too  late." 

"  He  will  die,  then,  you  think  ?  " 

"He  will." 

"  Are  you  willing  ?  " 

"  I  believe  I  am." 

"  You  are  changed  then.  You  were  disposed  to 
rebel  not  many  hours  since." 

"  It  is  true.  But  I  have  been  able  to  see  that 
4  whomsoever  the  Lord  loveth  He  chasteneth.'  It 
makes  me  happy  to  think  the  Lord  loves  me." 

"  How  have  you  been  brought  to  this  way  of  think 
ing  ?  You  evidently  did  not  seek  it  yourself;  besides, 
you  love  your  boy." 

"  I  know  it ;  and  my  heart  is  bleeding  even  now ; 
still  I  defer  to  His  will.  He  knows  best  what  is  for  my 
happiness  and  good." 

"  This  is  no  answer  to  the  inquiry,  4  why  do  you 
think  and  feel  thus  ?  '  " 

"'  I  cannot  tell.  If  I  did  not,  my  heart  would  break. 
I  want  to  feel  so  —  and  try  to." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  Oh !  how  I  am  perplexed  and  tried  !  Because  it 
is  my  duty." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  Because  God  created  all  things  ;  me  and  mine 
with  the  rest ;  and  all  things  are  inferior  to  Him  and 
dependent  on  Him." 


120  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

"  Is  duty,  then,  so  important  ?  " 

44  Yes  !  Duty  perfectly  accomplished  makes  perfect 
happiness  ;  and  exactly  in  the  proportion  of  duty  ac 
complished  is  the  happiness  of  man,  be  it  less  or 
more." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  By  experience." 

"  Your  child  may  rally." 

"  I  think  not." 

"  Still  he  may." 

"  I  see  no  reason  for  expecting  it." 

"  But  God  may.  You  saw  no  reason  for  his  becom 
ing  sick.  You  are,  you  perceive,  far  more  weak  and 
insignificant  than  you  supposed.  Very  little  has  oc 
curred  as  you  would  have  it.  But  God  knows  better 
than  you  what  is  for  your  good,  as  you  have  admitted. 
He  disciplines  His  children,  but  He  loves  them  also. 
He  has  brought  your  boy  to  the  edge  of  the  grave,  but 
He  can  return  him  to  you.  Yet  remember  !  Never 
consider  him  yours  again.  You  have  given  him  up  — 
in  every  sense,  given  him  up." 

The  prayer  was  over.  I  had  heard  every  word,  and 
felt  it  even  while  I  was  carrying  on  the  conversation 
above  recorded. 

The  holy  rite  was  then  administered,  and  as  the 
words,  "I  baptize  this  child,"  &c.j  were  uttered  —  "  in 
the  name  of  the  Father  and  the  Son  and  the  Holy 
Ghost  "  —  you  could  have  heard  a  pin  drop. 

Palpably  to  all,  there  was  a  presence  in  that  room, 
unseen,  but  none  the  less  appreciable. 

And  we  gave  him  up  forever  and  forever. 

The  ceremony  was  over.     Those  who  had  come  to 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  121 

witness  it,  gradually  departed,  as  noiselessly  as  they 
came.  I  said,  I  believe,  that  they  stole  in  like  shad 
ows.  They  went  out  like  beams  and  rays;  —  with 
a  glow  on  their  faces. 

It  was  but  a  little  sick  boy,  after  all. 

True,  but  he  had  an  immortal  spirit,  and  he  was 
about  to  depart  with  the  angels.  The  angels  had  come 
to  meet  him,  and,  evidently,  all  believed  they  were 
there.  They  bore  him not  away. 

The  hours  passed  on.  I  took  no  note  of  them.  All 
was  quiet  and  peaceful  at  Trifleton  House.  I  looked 
out  upon  the  sea.  Its  great  heart  was  beating  regu 
larly  and  slowly  and  calmly.  There  was  peace  on 
the  sea. 

I  looked  forth  upon  the  hills.  They  were  robed  in 
the  same  attire,  nearly,  as  was  so  beautifully  described 
by  you,  my  dear  friend,  in  your  last  letter.  Not  a  leaf 
stirred  upon  the  trees.  The  afternoon  sunshine  lin 
gered  ant!  played  amid  their  branches.  There  was 
peace  on  the  hills. 

I  looked  in  upon  my  heart.  The  sharpness  of  my 
grief  was  over.  I  had  met  it  face  to  face,  measured 
it,  drooped  under  it  —  well  nigh  broken  ;  but  now  — 

There  was  peace  in  my  heart. 

From  the  sheer  force  of  habit,  I  went  to  Prig's  bed 
side,  and,  leaning  down  close  to  him,  I  said,  as  I  had 
said  a  hundred  times  during  his  sickness,  and  got  no 
answer,  "  Do  you  love  your  Papa  ?  " 

I  listened,  but  expected  no  reply  from  those  chill, 
clammy  lips.  Faintly,  faintly,  but  oh  !  how  softly  and 
sweetly,  he  whispered  — 

"  Ye-e-es." 


122  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

I  have  heard  birds  sing,  and  Jenny  Lind  warble.  I 
have  listened  to  the  accents  of  friendship  and  the 
promises  of  love ;  but  I  never  heard  music  like  the 
music  of  that  one  little  word,  "  Yes."  It  thrilled 
through  and  through  me,  and  made  my  heart  leap, 
and  my  pulses  quiver.  He  could  speak,  and  had  his 
reason !  —  And  the  angels  of  Hope  and  Gratitude 
came  and  "supped"  with  me,  and  'Hook  up  their 
abode  "  with  me. 

From  that  moment  he  began  to  mend.  As  is  always 
the  case  with  children,  he  came  up  as  fast  as  he  went 
down,  and,  at  this  present  writing,  he  is  quite  well, 
quite  himself,  except  that  he  is  a  little  thin. 

The  doctors  say  it  is  almost  a  miracle,  and  that  we 
must  be  extremely  careful  of  him.  All  of  which  is 
very  well,  but,  —  he  is  in  better  hands. 

Let  us  live  more  humbly,  my  Editor.  Let  us  have 
done  with  pride  and  haughtiness,  and  all  such  things ! 
Let  us  be  simple-minded,  sincere  and  earnest  in  all 
good  thoughts,  words  and  actions.  Let  us  think  better 
of  humanity,  and  reflect  that  there  are  many  in  all 
ranks  and  stations  of  life  who  love  us,  but  are  too 
timid  or  artificial  to  be  demonstrative  except  when 
their  sympathies  are  provoked  by  seeing  us  in  afflic 
tion  ! 

Most  of  all,  let  us  believe,  and  act,  hereafter,  upon 
the  principle  that  people  of  low  degree  —  even  our 
servants  —  are  not  to  be  despised  ;  but  that  they  feel 
as  keenly  and  tenderly  and  as  affectionately  as  we, 
whom  adventitious  circumstances  have  placed  above 
them  ;  —  as  we,  who  have  been  better  cultured  ;  —  as 
we,  who  have  more  blessings  without,  oftentimes,  ap- 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  123 

predating  their  source,  —  as  we,  who  must  respond  in 
proportion  as  we  are  endowed  ;  —  as  we,  who  think 
and  talk  of  "  society,"  and  "  our  set,"  and  spend  much 
of  our  time  in  "  growling"  because  we  are  not  "better 
off;" — as  we,  who  are  apt  to  think  we  are  burdened 
by  cares  and  anxieties  beyond  account,  and  that  our 
case  is  peculiarly  a  hard  one  ! 

Could  we  but  run  our  brief  career  without  so  many 
murmurs,  how  much  more  nearly  should  we  approach 
him  who  suffered  as  never  man  suffered  —  spake  as 
"  never  man  spake." 

Think  of  it !     Think  of  it ! 


124  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 


XIV. 


THE  ARM-CHAIR,    } 
Under  the  Clouds.  £ 

WE  rejoice  with  you,  happy  Trifle,  that  your  boy  is 
spared  to  you, —  that  the  hour  of  darkness  and  doubt, 
of  dread  and  despair,  is  past,  and  that  the  sunlight  of 
hope  and  joy  has  come  to  you,  —  ay,  that  the  rebellious 
spirit  is  become  meek,  and  rejoices  humbly  in  the 
sunlight. 

Clouds  are  over  the  earth.  Dampness  is  in  the  val 
leys,  and  over  the  hill-tops  the  rnist  hangs  heavily. 
The  wind  with  fitful  breath  rustles  the  fading  leaves, 
and  one  by  one  they  slowly  fall  into  their  damp,  cold 
grave.  The  autumnal  flowers  look  sad  under  the 
shadows  and  amid  the  decay  of  summer's  beauties. 
The  harvest  is  gathered,  and  the  fields  look  desolate. 
Gloom  gathers  over  all,  and  darkness  comes  on  early, 
the  starless,  murky  night.  Happy  we,  if  the  hearth 
stone  is  bright,  and  cheerfulness  beams  out  from  sunny 
hearts.  Alas  !  how  many  hearts  are  shadowed  by 
heavier  clouds  and  murkier  gloom  than  that  which 
darkens  the  earth.  Those  whom  we  met  this  day, — 
how  many  were  free  from  the  clouds  of  sorrow,  sin,  or 
remorse  ?  He  who  went  bustling  by  to  drive  a  '  thriv 
ing  trade,'  was  not  care  and  anxious  throught  in  his 
brain  ?  She  who  smiled  sweetly  as  she  displayed  the 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  125 

costly  fabric  from  Hovey's  or  Stewart's,  wrought  into 
fashion's  latest  conception,  was  there  not  an  uneasiness 
about  her  heart,  a  fear,  a  regret  ?  —  envy,  and  bitter 
hate,  perhaps  ?  He,  the  man  of  reputed  piety  and 
worth,  were  there  no  misgivings  in  his  heart  ?  May 
there  not  have  been  there  the  deep  shadow  of  unknown 
sin  ?  And  they  whose  goodness  none  may  doubt,  in  their 
true  humility,  were  there  no  inward  struggles  and  sor 
rowful  regrets  for  them  ?  But  not  for  us  is  it  to  read 
our  fellow-mortals'  hearts. 

Clouds  are  over  the  heart  of  Bel  Hard.  A  few  years 
ago  she  was  a  light-hearted  gjrl,  in  whom  nature  was 
ever  expressive.  But  '  education  '  smothered  nature, 
chilled  the  warm  springs  of  generous  affection,  and 
made  her  the  creature  of  pride  and  fashion.  Ductile 
in  the  hands  of  her  managing  mother,  she  has  been  a 
mere  machine  for  the  display  of  wealth  and  the  per 
formance  of  folly's  masquerade.  The  return  of  an 
old  playmate,  the  remembrance  of  those  sweeter  joys 
of  unfrozen  youth,  the  influence  of  his  noble  nature, 
had  softened  the  ice.  The  sunlight  shone  in  upon  her 
heart,  forgotten  dreams  returned,  hope  began  to  beam, 
and  love,  scarce  recognized,  found  a  secret  dwelling- 
place  there.  The  change  was  sudden,  and  the  heart, 
thus  bursting  from  chains  and  frosts,  was  all  undisci 
plined.  A  few  words  had  raised  there  a  dark  and  angry 
spirit,  and  there  are  clouds  of  doubt,  and  fear,  and 
jealous  dread,  over  her  heart.  She  seeks  relief  in  her 
old  routine  of  hollow  pleasure,  but  it  is  not  there.  She 
may  seek  to  resume  the  apathy  of  her  recent  life,  or 
even  its  ennui,  but  it  is  too  late  ;  for  the  time  being, 
at  least,  the  discontented  spirit  rules,  and  the  clouds 
will  not  depart. 


126  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

Over  the  heart  of  Umber,  too,  are  clouds.  In  his 
long  sojourn  abroad,  the  remembrance  of  his  old  play 
mate  never  yielded  to  more  recent  impressions.  He 
had  returned  to  find  her  changed ;  but  underneath  the 
acquired  habits  and  coldness  and  follies  of  fashion,  he 
had  discerned  the  existence  —  faint  and  struggling  — 
of  a  heart,  and  natural,  generous  sympathies.  But  ere 
he  dared  attempt  to  cherish  these  into  stronger  life, 
ere  he  dared  hope  what  most  he  desired  to  hope,  a 
word  had  separated  them.  And  now  he  felt  the  differ 
ence  of  their  positions.  She  was  wealthy,  and  he  was 
penniless ;  and  here,  in  the  land  of  democracy  and 
equality,  to  be  penniless  was  to  be  worthless,  friend 
less,  hopeless.  Clouds  might  well  overhang  his  heart 
for  a  time,  but  in  his  art  he  shall  find  sunshine  to  dis 
pel  them,  and  riches  in  his  mind  which  gold  and  silver 
and  bank-notes,  stocks  and  real  estate,  can  never  buy, 
or  borrow,  or  rival,  except  in  the  estimation  of — 
nearly  the  whole  world.  Well,  if  the  world  will  think 
so,  —  that  dollars  and  cents  and  treasures  that  rust  and 
corrupt  are  better  than  the  treasures,  rich,  but  immate 
rial  and  unvalued,  which  last  and  grow  forever  and 
ever,  —  why,  let  it ;  Umber,  possibly  Trifle,  shall  not 
care,  save  now  and  then  when  the  world  is  insolent  in 
its  opinion. 

There  has  been,  of  late,  a  new  guest  at  the  Hard 
mansion,  the  Hon.  Mr.  Weed  from  the  South,  a  man 
of  money  and  —  nothing  else,  save  some  vices,  per 
haps.  Not  having  his  history  and  pedigree,  we  cannot 
say  how  he  acquired  his  title.  But  mysterious  orders 
have  suddenly  made  great  men  out  of  even  less  mate 
rial  ;  and  men  who  delight  in  the  vocabulary  of  Bil- 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  127 

lingsgate,  to  say  nothing  of  jockey  parsons  and  other 
rogues,  have  the  term  Hon.  prefixed  to  their  names. 
So,  why  not  the  Hon.  Mr.  Weed  ?  He  saw  Bel  at 
Newport,  and  he  concluded  that  she  should  be  the 
future  Mrs.  Weed  ;  but  among  the  "matches"  at  the 
fashionable  watering-place,  he  was  not  so  prominent  as 
to  stand  foremost  in  Madame  Hard's  list.  He  had  that 
however,  on  which  he  could  rely  for  ultimate  success 
somewhere,  even  if  his  pride  should  be  mortified  by 
one  refusal.  But  Bel  would  best  grace  his  establish 
ment,  and  Bel  at  home  might  find  no  greater  attraction 
than  himself — or  his  wealth.  So  he  spends  a  month 
and  much  money  in  Boston,  going  daily  to  the  Man 
sion,  riding  with  Bet  and  ingratiating  himself  with 
Madame  Hard.  And  so  Umber  daily  feels  that  he  is 
poor,  and  of  no  account  in  the  world. 

Yet  is  he  not  forgotten  at  the  Mansion.  0,  no ! 
Bel  —  but  no  matter.  Madame  Hard  mentions  a  young 
artist,  just  from  Rome,  whom  she  would  recommend  to 
her  friends.  We  were  present  when  he  was  named  to 
the  Hon.  Mr.  Weed.  The  Hon.  Mr.  Weed  thinks  he 
"  must  patronize  him."  He  even  desires  that  this 
artist  may  be  permitted  to  paint  Bel's  portrait,  "  if  he 
is  competent."  Bel's  portrait  for  the  Hon.  Mr.  Weed  ! 
Madame  thinks  that  very  promising.  What  an  excel 
lent  man,  too,  to  patronize  so  willingly  the  poor  artist. 
It  must  be  done. 

But  Bel  objects.  In  her  heart  she  feels  she  cannot 
trust  herself  near  that  easel,  yet  she  desires  it.  Madame 
intercedes.  The  Hon.  Mr.  Weed  "  begs  this  great  favor, 
which  will  be  most  highly  prized."  He  intimates  some 
thing  about  possessing  the  original,  in  a  rather  con- 


128  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

fused  sentence,  but  perfectly  intelligible  to  Madame, 
and  startling  to  the  heart  of  Bel  —  gratifying  to  her 
pride.  And  Bel  consents  to  the  portrait,  for  she  feels 
that  a  crisis  is  coming.  She  consents  —  and  goes  to 
weep.  Umber  goes  not  to  the  Mansion  now,  and 
so  Madame  invites  us  to  introduce  the  Hon.  Mr. 
Weed,  who  offers  the  commission  with  the  air  of  a 
patron. 

The  artist  hesitates,  —  an  icy  hand  seems  laid  upon  his 
brow,  and  the  blood  presses  at  his  heart.  Has  it  come 
to  this  ?  Well,  well.  It  will  be  a  solace  to  paint  that 
face,  though  the  sittings  will  be  painful.  So  the  Hon. 
Mr.  Weed  is  informed  that  Umber  is  not  a  portrait 
painter,  but  that  he  will  consent  to  paint  this  picture 
"  for  the  future  husband  of  his  old  playmate."  The 
Hon.  Mr.  Weed  is  a  little  staggered  at  the  artist's  man 
ner  and  his  language,  but  he  takes  refuge  in  his  money 
and  consequent  superiority  to  "  such  folks."  And  so, 
Bel  is  to  sit,  after  the  Rachel  season. 

Rachel  has  come,  and  the  beau  monde  is  in  ecstasies 
—  the  beau  monde  and  Frenchmen.  The  latter  natur 
ally  and  properly,  the  former  fashionably  and  foolish 
ly.  Snobs  and  parvenues  with  their  white  kids  turn 
the  leaves  of  Rachel's  plays,  and  are  of  course  able  to 
appreciate  and  criticize  !  They  may  know  as  much 
about  French  as  they  do  Choctaw,  but  —  it  is  all  the 
same  ;  truly,  "'tis  all  the  same  to  them.  You  and  we 
have  read  Racine,  Trifle,  but  we  should  find  those 
stately  lines  and  troublesome  rhymes  quite  a  new  thing 
as  recited  by  Rachel.  But  the  books,  (such  books  !) 
like  the  librettos  of  operas,  may  they  not  make  it  all 
easy  and  intelligible  ?  Of  course  they  do,  for  do  not 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  129 

even  the  snobs  and  dandies  applaud  ?  They  can  follow 
the  text,  blunders  and  all,  appreciate  the  intonation  and 
expression,  and  smile  approval.  The  great  tragedienne 
has  a  fearful  ordeai.  Paris  has  grown  cold,  but  if  the 
Yankees  approve,  what  need  she  care  ?  As  for  the 
French  classical  drama,  that  will  be  delightful  to  those 
who  "  can't  bear  Shakspeare." 

Of  course  the  Hards  and  the  Hon.  Mr.  Weed  have 
taken  seats  for  the  season.  He  displayed  his  magnifi 
cence  and  presence  on  the  first  night,  as  he  waited 
upon  the  ladies  into  the  balcony.  Very  deferential  was 
he  to  Madame,  quite  kindly  familiar  towards  Bel,  ex 
plaining  what  she  knew  better  than  he.  He  applauded 
when  others  did,  and  Madame  smiled  approval  and 
looked  appreciation.  But  Bel  was  silent,  undemonstra 
tive,  sad.  Her  eye  often  wandered  from  the  passion 
ate  face  and  classical  poses  of  the  tragedienne  to  an 
unobtrusive  seat,  where  Umber,  the  artist,  a  perfect 
French  scholar,  was  renewing  the  pleasure  he  had 
felt  in  Paris.  Did  she  think  how,  under  his  instruc 
tion,  she  might  have  enjoyed  the  performance  ?  Her 
thoughts  wandered,  too,  manifestly.  Was  it  to  the 
artist's  studio,  the  meetings  that  must  take  place,  the 
conversation,  the  feelings  which  must  come?  Or 
were  they  with  the  lump  of  humanity  by  her  side, 
whose  gold  is  so  much  weightier  than  the  artist's 
worth  ?  And  then  she  smiled  a  bitter  smile,  as  if 

she  thought  how  the  latter  would  be  punished  if 

Ah !  the  smile  vanished  as  if  the  thought  were  hope 
less.  Verily,  we  found  a  better  study  in  this  living 
scene,  than  in  Rachel's  impersonation  of  Corneille's 
heroine. 

9 


130  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

A  letter  from  Abel  Hard  tells  us  that  he  is  prosecuting 
his  search  beyond  the  Lakes,  for  Lily  —  so  he  calls 
her  —  and  her  father.  The  place  whither  he  was 
directed  by  his  poor  Newport  friend  contained  them 
not,  and  he  gets  no  trace  of  them ;  but  among  English 
emigrants  and  at  land  offices,  he  makes  ceaseless  in 
quiries,  anxious  and  troubled  ever.  The  activity  of 
his  life  alone  preserves  the  health  of  mind  and  body. 
But  when  will  this  mad  search  end  ? 

But  even  so  do  we  all  —  wandering  away  in  search 
of  happiness,  or  what  we  foolishly  deem  such,  regard 
less  of  what  lies  close  about  us,  in  our  daily  paths,  — 
the  sympathies  and  affections,  which  we  may  discover 
or  awaken  and  cultivate,  and  which  will  yield  a  hun 
dred-fold  of  joys.  So  we  wander  away  to  perform 
imagined  duties,  forgetful  of  those  humbler  ones  at 
home,  and  ever  present,  which,  if  well  performed, 
will  bring  a  richer  and  surer  reward.  Ah !  Trifle, 
when  shall  we  learn  to  live  the  true  life,  cultivating 
our  own  gardens,  rooting  out  the  weeds,  cherishing 
the  flowers,  and  reaping  the  fruits,  grateful  for  dews 
and  life-giving  airs,  rejoicing  in  the  clear  heavens,  and 
knowing  that  above  the  darkest  clouds  shineth  God's 
Sun  forevermore ! 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  131 


XV. 


TRIFLETON  HOUSE,  > 

In  time  of  Buckwheat  Cakes.  } 

YES,  sir!  Buckwheats  have  come,  and  Pat.  may 
have  the  "  chivalric  "  corn  cake  all  to  herself  now. 
I  have  been  trying  to  learn  to  like  it,  it  is  so  eternally 
on  our  breakfast  table.  Every  morning  —  no  matter 
how  much  or  how  little  of  any  thing  else  we  may 
have  —  there  looms  the  everlasting  corn  cake.  But 
I  find  I  can't  quite  "  go  it."  Pm  not  enough  like  a 
hen,  not  sufficiently  hen  pecked,  1  suppose,  to  appreciate 
it.  But  buckwheats  !  —  Well,  I'm  of  the  opinion  that 
they  are  pretty  good  —  for  breakfast.  Pm  certain,  in 
fact,  that  I  "  like  'em  ; "  and  you  know  when  Trifle 
likes  anybody  or  anything,  there's  no  half  way  about 
it.  He  likes  or  he  don't  like.  It's  out  and  out.  There's 
no  "  tolerably,"  or  "  comparatively  well,"  or  "  so,  so," 
respecting  the  matter.  It's  "  yes,"  or  "  no."  And  so 
it  should  be  with  everybody.  Diamonds  are  better  than 
rubies,  but  the  greatest  of  jewels  is  sincerity  ;  —  unly- 
ing,  undeceiving  sincerity.  Commend  me  to  people 
who've  got  brains  enough  to  know  for  themselves  what 
they  like,  and  what  they  don't,  and  courage  enough  to 
say  so. 

I  tell  you,  man,  I  know  I  like  buckwheats,  if  you 
must  be  told.  Don't  begin  your  breakfast  on  'em. 


132  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

Don't  spoil  'em  by  eating  'em  with  your  beef  steak 
and  fried  potatoes,  or  what  not.  But  wait  awhile,  and 
when  you're  about  three-quarters  through  your  break 
fast,  ring  Mary  in  and  give  her  the  word.  Now  then  ! 
—  Commencing,  as  it  were,  de  novo,  but  actually  fin 
ishing,  in  point  of  fact,  forget  what  you  have  pre 
viously  eaten,  and  surrender  yourself  to  buckwheats. 
Two  at  a  time,  small,  thick,  spongy,  light,  hot,  with 
plenty  of  Vermont  butter,  and  the  least  bit  of  syrup 
or  refined  molasses,  with  a  fresh  cup  of  coffee,  (very 
much  sweetened  to  atone  for  the  molasses,)  attack 
them  in  a  quiet,  serene,  gentlemanlike  way,  and  tell 
your  Pat.,  or  your  Mrs.  Editor,  or  your  Mrs.  "  smart 
subscriber,"  that  you've  read  all  that  Charles  Lamb 
says  about  "  roast  pig,"  a  hundred  times,  but  it  is  not 
to  be  believed.  It's  all  fancy,  madam  !  "  Roast  pig  " 
is  nothing,  madam,  absolutely  nothing  to  buckwheats  ! 

If,  then,  oh  Editor,  in  spite  of  all  previous  warnings, 
you  will  come  and  "  see  "  one  of  our  breakfasts,  come 
and  criticize  our  buckwheats,  and  discuss  —  Rachel. 

We've  seen  her  once,  which  is  quite  enough  to 
satisfy  us. 

When  I  say  we've  seen  her,  I  mean  Stubs  and 
myself.  We  went  Saturday  afternoon,  like  honest 
country  folks,  who  can  go  at  no  other  time.  We  at 
tracted  considerable  attention,  doubtless,  on  account  of 
our  costume.  Mine,  I  suppose,  looked  as  you  might 
imagine  such  a  shabby,  unpolished  person  as  Trifle 
would  naturally  wear,  and  Stubs'  about  ditto.  Why, 
we  got  over  corn-colored  gloves  and  "  genteel "  coats 
some  years  ago,  —  before  we  left  town  even. 

Several  young  ladies  of  extremely  engaging  man- 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  133 

ners  and  pleasant  little  ways,  which  can  only  be  ac 
quired  in  town,  who  were  probably  French,  as  they 
talked  that  exquisitely  euphonious  tongue  exclusively, 
turned  up  their  "turn  up"  noses — which,  mirabile 
dictu,  they  all  had,  excepting  one  "  snub  "  and  another 
proboscis  —  at  my  thick  boots  and  Stubs'  long-waisted 
coat  with  short  tails,  as  I  thought,  but  this  may  have 
been  imagination.  I  ought  to  remark,  perhaps,  that 
we  had  had  the  audacity  to  purchase  seats  in  the  same 
box  with  them ;  and  it  is  clear  that  young  ladies  of 
"  style  "  and  "  breeding,"  who  can  talk  French,  are 
entitled  in  public  to  do  as  they  please.  What  astounds 
me  now,  is  our  assurance  in  supposing  that  we  had  a 
right  to  sit  in  the  same  theatre,  much  less  the  same 
box. 

I  do  admire  young  ladies,  particularly  in  public, 
they  are  so  winning,  so  undisguised  ;  —  they  show  so 
readily  what  they  are  ;  —  they  have  so  little  reserve, 
which  is  but  a  poor,  weak,  maidenly  thing  after  all. 

This  coterie  of  lovely  creatures,  as  I  said,  talked 
French,  which  was  evidently  intended  as  a  "  crusher  " 
to  us.  We  were  considerably  overwhelmed,  as  you 
may  conceive.  We  have  had  but  the  slim  facilities 
of  Cambridge,  under  Longfellow,  in  that  delicious  lan 
guage; —  have  merely  read  the  best  French  authors, 
in  a  word. 

It  is  quite  true  Stubs  resided  a  year  in  Paris,  and  I 
have  been  an  indifferent  traveller  ;  but  we  don't  pre 
tend  to  talk  French.  We  consider  it  quite  a  feat  to 
speak  good  English,  and  indeed  we  hear  very  little  of 
that.  These  fascinating  creatures  of  the  feminine  gen 
der,  who  know  French,  seldom  use  good  English. 
Why,  I  could  never  tell,  and  it  puzzles  Stubs,  too. 


134  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

The  young  ladies  who  sat  near  us,  I  have  no  doubt, 
were  French ;  but  their  language  bore  little  resem 
blance  to  the  kind  one  hears  in  Paris,  considered  in 
regard  either  to  its  elegance,  pronunciation,  or  even 
grammar.  Still,  it  was  very  charming,  and  I  don't 
know  when  I  have  been  so  much  enraptured — as 
tonished  I  think  I  may  say  —  as  I  was  in  listening 
to  it.  I  had  to  listen,  you  see,  Because  they  didn't 
talk  in  whispers.  I  think  when  Trifle  has  some 
daughters,  it  will  be  of  small  consequence  whether 
they  learn  English  or  Latin.  No,  sir;  they  shall  be 
taught  French,  and  sent  to  concerts,  operas,  theatres, 
and  so  on.  For  why  should  they  know  it,  if  they 
are  never  to  exhibit  it,  I  pray  to  know. 

One  thing  I  could  not  help  observing.  These  sweet 
young  ladies  astonishingly  resembled  certain  men  we 
know  in  town.  In  fact,  I  could  almost  swear  that  I 
knew  their  Pas  —  worthy  tradesmen  in  the  great  city. 
Possibly  I  could  asseverate  that  I  had  seen  them  in 
company  with  their  Pas,  in  the  street  and  elsewhere  ; 
but  in  this  I  am  probably  mistaken.  They  were  in- 
contestably  French.  Their  excessive  politeness  and 
"  style  "  proved  that. 

Amid  the  conversation  of  these  stupendously  accom 
plished  creatures,  (French  is  the  greatest  of  achieve 
ments  ! )  we  caught,  occasionally,  a  little  of  Rachel. 
I  wouldn't  have  you  suppose,  for  a  moment,  that  we 
caught  much.  How  could  we,  bewildered  thus  by 
beauty  and  accomplishment,  in  the  closest  proximity  ; 
—  crowded  by  it,  and  overwhelmed  by  it,  I  might 
say? 

The  play  was  Adrienne    Lecouvreur.      We  were, 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  135 

in  plain  English,  disappointed.  We  were  constantly 
waiting  for  something  which  did  not  come.  We  are 
told,  however,  that  this  play  doesn't  call  into  requisition 
Rachel's  distinguishing  traits  to  any  extent ;  —  that  it 
is  only  in  the  fourth  and  fifth  acts  that  she  indicates 
her  power. 

It  is  very  possible  ;  but  we  are  satisfied  that  a  capi 
tal  prerequisite  to  appreciating  her  is  an  entire  famil 
iarity  with  the  language.  Hence  the  ecstasy  of  the 
French  ladies  who  sat  with  us.  They  thought  it  was 
"  splendid."  It  seems  they  could  talk  a  little  Eng 
lish. 

We  should  wish  to  see  Rachel  in  a  different  play 
before  passing  our  judgment  upon  her,  though  we 
remember  how  fascinated  we  were  with  even  Miss 
Davenport  in  the  translation  of  the  same  play  — 
from  beginning  to  end. 

Pink  was  considerably  indignant  at  our  being 
disappointed,  and  with  a  sweet  serenity  remarked 
that  it  was  what  might  be  expected  from  two  such 
"  old  fogies,"  for  we  neither  of  us  were  judges  of 
good  acting.  Perhaps  not.  But  we  have  seen,  often, 
Booth's  Lear  —  which  we  call  acting;  and  his  Sir 
Giles  and  his  lago.  But  we  shall  never  see  any 
such  acting  again.  We  have  seen,  next,  Brooke's 
Othello,  and  that  we  call  acting.  We  have  seen 
Macready  again  and  again,  and  after  Booth  and 
Brooke  we  call  him  an  actor.  His  Virginius  is  by 
no  means  despicable,  and  his  Hamlet  will  quite  do. 
We  call  the  elder  Vandenhoff  in  Coriolanus  and  Bru 
tus,  too,  "  some  pumpkins."  Forrest,  indeed,  though 
not  to  our  taste  generally,  is  an  actor  in  his  William 


136  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

Tell  and  his  Richelieu.  We  will  say  nothing  of 
such  players  as  Anderson,  Charles  Kean,  and  so  on. 
True,  we  know  very  little  of  acting,  but  we  have 
seen  among  women,  Grisi,  Mrs.  Charles  Kean,  Miss 
Vandenhoff  and  Miss  Cushman,  and  heard  "  Mrs. 
Butler "  read.  We  have  also  seen  Biscaccianti  in 
Lucia,  and  Miss  Davenport  and  Miss  Logan  in  their 
respective  roles,  with  once  or  twice  Mrs.  Barrow. 
We  might  mention  Mrs.  Barrett,  "  Miss  Dean,"  and 
"  Mrs,  Mowatt,"  but  enough  is  as  good  as  a  feast. 
We  have  wasted  more  time  at  theatres,  and  money 
and  patience  than  we  shall  again,  although  it  is  true, 
as  Pink  said,  that  we  know  nothing  of  acting.  Our 
only  means  of  knowing  about  it  has  been  in  witness 
ing  it  and  studying  it  to  a  moderate  extent  —  but  we 
are  quite  done  with  it.  It  amounts  to  very  little,  after 
all.  What  is  it  compared  with  oratory,  that  first  of 
powers,  that  not  only  influences  men  for  the  time 
being,  but  controls  them  for  coming  time  ;  touches 
their  springs  of  action,  and,  by  a  quasi  magic,  con 
verts  them  into  whatever  the  orator  wishes  to  have 
them.  A  great  orator  is  the  greatest  of  human  im 
pulses.  He  indicates,  and  creates,  and  impels,  and 
subdues,  and  conquers.  He  is  likest  Divinity,  intel 
lectually.  He  is  a  marvel  to  his  kind,  and  an 
enigma  to  himself.  He  cannot  quite  understand 
how  he  moves  the  massed.  It  is  from  a  fusion  of 
two  principles  —  incoherent  and  dissimilar,  but  still 
coalescive  —  human  sympathy  and  human  weakness, 
which  are  more  nearly  allied  than  you  think.  They 
feel  with  him  so  far  as  he  feels  as  they  feel,  and  yield 
to  him  insomuch  as  he  is3  or  as  they  think  he  is  supe- 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  137 

rior  to  them.  Men,  in  some  respects,  —  the  masses, 
i.  e.  —  are  extremely  weak;  that  is,  are  impressible, 
whether  they  will  or  no;  —  that  is,  have  no  individ 
uality  ;  —  that  is,  exhaust  themselves  in  a  hurrah. 

Speaking  of  orators,  we  have  been  reading  the  Me 
moir  lately  of  S.  S.  Prentiss  of  Mississippi,  the  great 
orator  of  the  Southwest.  We  thought  u  Christie  John 
son  "  was  interesting  —  extremely  so,  deliciously  so ; 
we  have  been  plunging  with  some  curiosity  into  Amos 
Lawrence's  Diary,  &c.  We  have  cut  the  leaves  of 
"  Bayne's  Christian  Life,"  which  we  understand  is  one 
of  the  best  books  of  the  age,  but  we  have  been  intoxi 
cated,  held  our  breath,  wondered,  laughed,  almost 
cried  over  the  "  Memoir  of  S.  S.  Prentiss." 

You  have  read  often,  no  doubt,  Macaulay's  descrip 
tion  of  the  Trial  of  Warren  Hastings,  and  been  be 
wildered.  You  have  read,  probably,  March's  account 
of  Webster's  Speech  in  reply  to  Col.  Hayne  —  and 
like  a  true  son  of  Massachusetts  been  touched  to  the 
quick  ;  but  if  you  wish  your  pulses  to  quiver,  and  your 
heart  to  beat  tumultuously,  read  the"  account  .of  Pren- 
tiss's  first  speech  in  Congress,  when  he  was  only 
twenty-nine  years  old.  The  galleries  were  thronged 
to  overflowing.  John  Quincy  Adams  and  all  the  great 
men  of  the  house  drew  round  his  chair,  and  Webster 
and  Clay  and  Crittenden  and  Preston,  the  four  greatest 
orators  of  America,  marched  in  from  the  Senate  to 
hear  him. 

With  eagerness  and  avidity  (for  the  book,  edited  by 
his  brother,  indicates  that  marvellous  eloquence  was  a 
family  trait,)  devour  the  history  of  his  career.  See 
him  at  thirty,  with  a  national  fame  as  a  lawyer  and  a 


138  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

statesman,  and  as  a  stump  orator,  influencing  and  con 
trolling  at  his  command  the  feelings  and  opinions  of 
thousands  and  thousands  and  thousands  of  his  country 
men.  See  Webster,  and  Crittenden,  and  Clay  loving 
and  idolizing  him,  and  the  masses  of  the  people  abso 
lutely  worshipping  him,  blocking  his  path  as  he  trav 
elled  through  the  country,  and  pushing  him  up  higher 
and  higher  towards  the  pinnacle  of  fame,  —  and  so  on 
through  the  whole  of  the  first  volume  and  most  of  the 
second.  And  during  all  this  brilliant  career,  see  him 
writing  the  tenderest,  and  sweetest,  and  most  affection 
ate  letters  constantly  to  his  mother  and  sisters  at  the 
North,  where  he  was  born  and  whence  he  emigrated 
when  a  boy,  indicating  that  he  was  in  nowise  intoxi 
cated,  or  shaken  from  his  balance,  but  that  his  nature 
was  still  simple,  childlike,  generous  and  incorrupt. 

You  might  suppose  my  tone  and  the  tone  of  the 
book  extravagant,  and  adulatory  almost.  But  it  is  not. 
There  is  ample  evidence  to  substantiate  all  that  is  said 
in  regard  to  him.  He  was  in  very  truth  a  great  man, 
—  one  of  the  greatest  men,  in  a  word,  that  America 
has  produced  ;  and  in  character  and  heart  the  noblest 
of  the  noble.  But  alas  !  he  died  young,  —  but  a  little 
over  forty. 

If  you  can,  or  your  "  smart  subscriber  "  can  read 
this  second  volume  through  without  moist  eyes,  you 
are  very  different  from  Trifle. 

In  many  ways  his  career  was  marvellous  beyond 
account,  beyond  imagination  almost.  One  of  Nature's 
noblemen,  he  loved  everybody  better  than  himself,  and 
towards  the  latter  part  of  his  life  his  fortune  slipped 
through  his  fingers,  and  his  health,  but  not  his  energies 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  139 

faded  rapidly  away.  He  would  not  yield.  He  died, 
as  it  were,  "  with  harness  on."  He  tried  an  impor 
tant  law-case  while  he  had  one  foot  in  the  grave,  and 
with  Ijis  soul  full  of  love  to  his  poor  heart-broken 
wife  and  children  —  and  to  his  mother  and  sisters, 
whose  idol  he  was —  he  passed  away  from  this  relent 
less  world. 

Oh,  it  is  a  story  full  of  interest  and  tears.  All 
beautiful  tilings  fade,  all  garnered  hopes  are  lost,  all 
delights  perish  —  here. 

I  never  knew  Mr.  Prentiss,  never  heard  him  speak, 
never  saw  him.  I  have  been  influenced  in  writing  thus 
about  him,  simply  from  reading  the  book  of  Memoirs. 
I  call  it  one  of  the  most  intensely  interesting  books  I 
ever  read. 


140  TRIFLE-TON    PAPERS. 


XVI. 


THE  ARM-CHAIR,  > 
In  November.     $ 

FROM  doubtful  satisfaction  with  Rachel,  uncultivated 
Trifle,  you  turn  to  loud  praises  of  Sergeant  S.  Pren- 
tiss.  Well,  perhaps  you  may  be  right.  But  a  year 
ago,  before  you  essayed  rural  life,  would  you  not  have 
followed  the  fashionable  column  into  the  theatre  with 
plaudits  for  the  great  tragedienne  ?  Now,  forsooth, 
because  you  have  lived  six  months  in  the  country,  and 
have  there  taken  up  your  abode  —  for  just  so  long  as 
you  shall  be  contented — you  assume  to  be  like  Stubs 
and  other  country  folk,  and  go  to  the  theatre  when 
Rachel  is  here,  with  thick  boots  and  unfashionable 
clothes.  How  could  you  expect  not  to  disgust  and 
annoy  young  ladies  of  haul  ton  1  Is  it  not  a  serious 
offence  to  thrust  yourselves,  as  you  and  Stubs  did,  into 
such  company,  in  such  garb  ?  How  could  you  expect, 
when  so  dressed  and  entirely  devoid  of  fashionable 
airs,  to  appreciate  and  admire  the  great  French  ar 
tiste  ? 

The  annoyance  of  such  highly  educated  and  culti 
vated  young  ladies,  whom  in  your  ignorance  you  took 
to  be  French,  it  seems  was  well  repaid  by  the  sense  of 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  141 

inferiority  which  they  produced  in  you.  If  it  be  any 
consolation  to  you,  be  assured  that  you  and  Stubs  are 
not  the  only  persons  who  have  been  so  impressed  by 
the  presence  and  high  breeding  of  charmingly  dressed 
young  ladies,  delighted  with  Rachel.  Many  sufferers 
can  condole  with  you. 

But  you  dismiss  Rachel  quite  too  cavalierly.  Not 
withstanding  all  the  draw-backs  and  disadvantages, — 
notwithstanding  the  farce  played  to  perfection  in  the 
auditorium,  you  might  have  seen  a  little  of  the  tragedy 
on  the  stage,  and  acknowledged  something  of  Rachel's 
merits  as  the  greatest  tragedienne  of  the  age,  —  as  the 
consummate  artiste,  who  can  give  the  most  touching 
and  the  most  terrible  expression  to  passion  and  all  the 
emotions  of  the  human  heart.  You  might  have  felt 
her  power,  or  at  least  seen  her  look,  her  bearing,  and 
her  "  making  up  "  which  the  French  ladies,  and  the 
shallow-pated  dandies,  even,  so  warmly  applaud.  But 
alas  !  for  Trifle,  —  he  has  buried  his  taste  and  his 
fashion  in  the  garden  of  Trifleton  House,  to  fertilize 
the  soil  for  his  tomatoes. 

You  extol  oratory  as  "  the  first  of  powers,"  and  the 
orator  as  "  likest  divinity,  intellectually."  Were  it 
worth  while  to  dispute  about  the  matter,  and  were  we 
able,  as  doubtless  Stubs  is,  we  might  join  issue  with 
you  on  that  proposition.  But  the  praises  which  you 
chant  to  oratory,  and  the  enthusiastic  encomiums  which 
you  bestow  upon  Prentiss  —  the  justice  of  which  we 
neither  admit  nor  deny  —  come  with  such  fervency, 
that  manifestly  you  are  to  be  convinced  only  against 
your  will.  We  have  no  desire  to  make  Trifle  dissatis 
fied  with  himself,  but  we  can't  quite  agree  with  him, 


142  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

even  in  the  matter  of  "  corn  bread "  and  "  buck 
wheats,"  —  nor  of  oratory. 

What  is  oratory  except  a  mode  of  expression  ?  It 
is  not  an  intellectual  power,  but  a  power  derived  or 
resulting  from  an  adaptation  of  the  physical  powers 
to  the  intellectual.  Eloquence  is  not  simply  and 
merely  oratory,  for  the  man  who  has  none  of  the 
physical  gifts  of  the  orator  may  write  words  of  the 
most  touching  and  stirring  eloquence.  Moreover  the 
power  of  oratory  is  transitory  and  limited.  It  moves, 
impels,  excites,  thrills  and  astonishes  those  brought 
directly  under  its  influence  ;  and  this  for  a  time  only, 
for  it  is  soon  like  a  mere  echo  to  those  who  have  lis 
tened,  and  its  influence  diminishes  and  dies  out  as  the 
echo  recedes.  The  eloquence  of  the  thought  and  lan 
guage,  however,  may  remain,  entirely  distinct  from 
the  oratory. 

If  you  mean  by  oratory  that  comprehensive  union  of 
intellect,  utterance  and  action,  language,  cultivation 
and  grace,  you  understand  something  more  —  much 
more  —  than  oratory  literally  or  really  is.  The  utter 
ance,  action  and  grace  together  with  the  power  —  a 
sort  of  magnetic  telegraph  —  by  which  these  are  con 
nected  with  and  controlled  by  the  intellect,  are  all 
that  belong  peculiarly  to  the  orator;  the  other  and 
greater  powers  or  gifts  are  held  in  common  by  orator, 
poet  and  philosopher. 

The  orator's  only  lasting  and  real  power,  therefore, 
is  in  that  which  he  possesses  in  common  with  other 
men  of  genius  or  talent,  the  intellect.  But  the  powers 
of  intellect  manifested  by  oratory,  all  powerful  and 
exciting  though  they  may  be  on  those  brought  directly 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  143 

under  its  influence,  by  the  senses  of  hearing  and  sight, 
produce  not  so  lasting  or  so  general  impressions  as 
they  may  when  expressed  in  other  modes.  The  ora 
tory  of  Demosthenes  is  a  mere  tradition.  His  elo 
quence,  which,  as  we  have  said,  is  more  than  oratory, 
is  not  felt  now.  But  the  tragedies  of  Sophocles  or 
Euripides  are  still  potent  in  their  influences,  exciting 
the  same  emotions,  nearly,  that  they  did  in  the  minds 
of  the  Greeks,  astounding  by  their  power,  and  delight 
ing  by  their  beauty.  So  the  still  more  ancient  epics 
of  Homer  live,  and  influence,  and  affect  the  reader 
beyond  all  the  oratory  or  eloquence  of  Demosthenes,  or 
^Eschines,  or  Pericles. 

What  orator,  in  the  time  of  Shakspeare,  before  or 
after,  has  so  influenced  the  minds  and  feelings  of  men 
as  the  great  bard  ?  —  has  excited  such  deep  emotions, 
has  produced  such  lasting  impressions  on  the  human 
mind,  has  so  led  the  heart  captive  ?  —  or  will  live  so  long 
as  a  great  master  over  human  passions  ?  Sheridan,  a 
splendid  orator,  is  better  known  now  as  a  dramatist  than* 
as  an  orator,  though  by  no  means  in  fact  so  extraor 
dinary  in  his  dramas  as  in  his  oratory. 

No,  the  poet  in  his  closet  may  send  forth  words 
more  potent  and  more  enduring  in  their  power  than 
the  greatest  orator.  The  power  of  the  orator  seems 
greater  because  it  is  exerted  on  numbers  simultaneous 
ly,  and  the  effect  of  his  influence  is  manifested  to  a 
certain  extent  by  a  sympathy  in  his  audience,  whereby 
they  act  upon  each  other,  or  by  which  he  intensifies 
his  influence  for  the  time  being.  The  poet,  through 
his  written  eloquence,  touches,  arouses,  moves,  one  at 
a  time,  separately,  a  wider  circle.  Were  there  any 


144  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

other  means,  besides  the  voice,  of  reaching  the  hearts 
of  men  simultaneously,  of  conveying  the  same  ideas 
and  producing  the  same  emotions  at  the  same  time, 
the  power  of  the  great  poet  would  be  even  more  mani 
fest  by  the  enthusiasm,  the  excitement,  the  tears  of 
those  brought  into  the  magic  circle,  than  that  of  the 
orator. 

Moreover,  the  powers  of  the  orator  are  generally 
addressed  to  transitory  subjects.  State  policy,  politi 
cal  events,  topics  of  temporary  or  local  interest,  for 
the  most  part,  are  subjects  which  call  forth  the  powers 
of  the  best  orators  of  any  nation  or  age.  Even  pul 
pit  oratory,  which  has  the  advantage  that  it  may  dwell 
upon  the  immortal  truths  of  religion,  often  makes  its 
greatest  and  most  striking  displays  on  subjects  of 
minor  consequence,  but  haply  of  more  exciting  pres 
ent  interest.  So  we  may  see  that,  after  all,  oratory 
owes  not  a  little  of  its  power  and  influence  to  the 
interest  of  the  subject-matter  and  the  excitement  of 
the  auditory.  The  speeches  of  Kossuth,  for  instance, 
owed  their  enthusiastic  response  to  sympathy  with 
his  cause,  felt  by  the  delighted  and  deeply  moved 
audiences. 

Of  Prentiss,  whom  you  so  highly  —  perhaps  justly 
—  extol,  we  cannot  presume  to  speak.  We  know 
how  his  eloquence  thrilled,  and  moved,  and  influenced 
those  who  were  brought  under  its  magic  spell, — 
that  he  was,  in  truth,  an  orator  gifted  in  some  respects 
beyond  most  other  men.  But  is  it  not  true  that  even 
his  eloquence  has  died  away  into  a  faint  echo  in  the 
memories  of  those  who  heard  him  ?  And  now  its  in 
fluence  on  you,  is  it  not  as  much  through  the  eloquent 


TRIFLE-TON    PAPERS.  145 

affection  of  a  brother  who  describes  the  triumphs  of  the 
orator. 

But  enough  of  this.  Thank  yourself,  most  provoking 
Trifle,  for  thus  leading  us  off  into  an  essay  on  oratory, 
which  after  all  is  only  the  result  of  "  kissing  the  Blar 
ney  stone."  Who  knows  that  we,  or  Trifle  or  Stubs 
might  not  become  orators,  gifted  as  we  are,  had  we 
but  the  good  fortune  to  salute  that  wondrous  geological 
specimen. 

You  are  an  admirer  of  the  genius  of  De  Quincey, 
and  have  doubtless  delighted  often  over  the  pages  of 
the  Opium  Eater.  But  have  you  read  "  Klosterheim," 
recently  republished  ?  It  is  said  that  the  author  con 
siders  it  a  juvenile  effort,  but  it  was  written  some  ten 
years  after  the  "  Confessions,"  and  in  the  full  maturity 
of  his  powers.  It  is  not  altogether  such  a  book  as  one 
might  expect  from  De  Quincey  in  an  extended  work 
of  fiction,  and  belongs  to  the  class  of  novels  now  out 
of  date.  It  is  a  work  of  passion,  mystery  and  terror, 
of  secret  passages  and  mysterious  assassinations,  the 
whole  machinery  of  which  impressed  with  superstitious 
awe  the  minds  of  the  actors  in  the  story,  although  it  is 
all  explained  and  unravelled  in  a  very  natural  and  rea 
sonable  way.  The  author  delights  in  the  appearance 
of  the  supernatural  by  a  mysterious  development  of 
the  real  and  actual,  and  while  the  reader  feels  the  force 
of  the  circumstances  which  to  a  superstitious  people 
might  seem  something  more  than  human  and  natural, 
yet  he  is  assured  that  the  line  of  probability  is  not 
overstepped. 

The  scene  selected  for  the  story  is  in  Germany, 
and  the  period  during  the  Thirty  Years'  War ;  time 
10 


146  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

and  place,  you  will  admit,  affording  ample  opportunity 
for  the  novelist,  and  especially  for  one  disposed  to 
write  in  this  particular  vein.  The  characters  are  such 
as  would  be  likely  to  be  thrown  upon  the  stage  during 
the  continuance  of  such  a  war, —  men  and  women 
who  could  act  in  a  terrible  drama.  Some  of  them  are 
developed  with  striking  personality,  but  others  are 
like  shadows  stalking  across  the  scene.  The  book 
is  written  for  the  most  part  in  the  clear,  rich  and  capti 
vating  style  of  the  author,  who  is  called  the  best  mas 
ter  of  the  English  language.  It  is,  indeed,  free  from 
some  of  the  defects  of  most  of  his  narrative  writings, 
and  the  reader  is  not  often  led  off  into  digressions  from 
the  story,  which,  however  agreeable  in  an  essay  or 
simple  narrative,  would  be  a  serious  drawback  in  a 
novel.  It  is  a  story  of  great  dramatic  power,  and 
abounds  in  "  scenes  "  of  a  striking  character. 

"  Klosterheim"  is  not  a  book  to  be  written  at  this  day; 
and  if  now  first  published  by  an  author  of  less  emi 
nence  than  De  Quincey,  would  find  readers  only 
among  that  class  who  delight  in  the  supernatural  and 
extravagant ;  notwithstanding  its  literary  and  artistic 
merits.  But  it  is  a  book  which  will  be  re-read  be 
cause  De  Quincey  wrote  it.  And  so  we  will  place  it 
beside  the  Opium  Eater's  other  works,  that  it  may 
complete  that  varied,  and  in  some  respects  wonderful 
collection  of  writings,  and  show  what  he  could  do  — 
rather  what  he  did,  in  his  only  attempt  at  an  extended 
story.  Pray  you,  read  "  Klosterheim." 

November !  Look  you,  Trifle,  how  time  goes  apace. 
It  is  in  November,  and  the  year  is  getting  into  its 
dotage,  —  sinking  into  a  lethargy,  and  waking  up  only 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  147 

from  its  long  naps  to  short  and  cloudy  clays.  The 
short  days  may  be  an  excuse  to  Umber  for  the  slow 
progress  of  Bel  Hard's  picture.  After  Rachel's  first 
week  it  was  begun  —  that  is,  the  canvas  was  put 
upon  the  easel,  and  Bel  had  a  sitting.  The  Hon.  Mr. 
Weed  was  there,  so  it  was  a  chilly,  November  day, 
and  it  was  all  over  for  that  time.  But  —  they  met 
again. 

Yes,  —  it  is  November,  the  month  of  fogs  —  and 
suicides  by  the  Thames  and  the  Seine  —  thank  Hea 
ven,  not  very  generally,  here.  Why  should  the  mists 
that  fill  the  valleys  and  shroud  the  hills  create  fogs 
in  men's  brains,  and  so  darken  their  way  that  they 
must  needs  step  over  the  brink  into  the  ocean  of 
eternity  ?  Can  the  philosophic  Trifle  solve  us  that  ? 
November  in  the  heart  is  more  dismal  than  the 
November  of  the  year.  Alas,  that  there  should  be  a 
perpetual  November  in  some  hearts  !  Yet  can  we 
wonder  that  from  a  perpetual  November  aching  human 
hearts  should  sometimes  seek  relief?  Thank  God, 
Trifle,  that  the  dismal  fogs  hang  not  about  your  life 
and  your  heart. 

We  don't  mind  November.  That  is,  we  don't 
always  "  knock  under  "  to  it,  and  feel  grouty,  and 
have  the  blues.  We  didn't  when,  some  years  ago, 
we  scribbled  the  following  lines,  and  unlike  the 
politicians,  we  subscribe  to  the  same  sentiments 
still. 

There's  pleasure  in  the  rainy  night, 

The  dark  November  night, 
As  the  drops  come  pattering  on  the  pane 

"With  footsteps  quick  and  light 


148  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

And  I  sit  musing  quietly 

By  my  hearthstone  warm  and  bright. 

The  leaves  are  withered,  crisp  and  dead, 
On  the  yellow  ground  they  lie,  — 

The  clouds  are  stooping  down  to  weep 
Their  loss  right  grievously, 

And  the  night  wind  o'er  the  robeless  bough 
Heaveth  a  mournful  sigh. 

But  though  'tis  starless  gloom  without, 
'Tis  bright  and  warm  within, 

And  my  heart  is  light  as  if  it  knew 
No  sorrow,  doubt  or  sin, 

Or  as  if  the  watcher,  conscience, 
Could  not  come  peering  in. 

A  night  for  fond  remembrances  ! 

My  friends,  I  greet  you  here  ; 
I  see  you  sitting  by  my  side, 

Each  face  well  known  and  dear  ; 
A  smile  is  wreathed  round  every  lip, 

Bedims  no  eye  a  tear. 

Our  days  have  lightly  flown  since  last 

We  parted  years  ago  ; 
We've  culled  full  many  a  blossom. 

In  its  beauty's  brightest  glow, 
And  we've  quaffed  from  many  a  fountain 

Where  sparkling  pleasures  flow. 

Then  let  us  all  be  merry  now, 

Though  the  clouds  without  do  weep, 

And  o'er  the  leafless  boughs  the  winds 
Sigh  mournfully  and  deep,  — 

Our  thoughts  are  amaranthine  leaves, 
That  know  not  death's  cold  sleep. 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  149 

We'll  gather  them  about  us  now, 

To  tell  of  days  gone  by, 
And  twining  wreaths  we'll  bid  the  hours 

Fly  as  they  erst  did  fly, 
While  we  heed  not  the  sad  cloud's  tears, 

Nor  the  sorrowing  wind's  low  sigh. 


150  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 


XVII. 


TRIFLETON  HOUSE,  > 


In  November. 


PRIG  is  in  town,  with  his  grandma  and  grandpa, 
(of  whom  more  anon,)  and  we  are  in — November. 
There's  no  doubt  about  it.  It's  the  genuine  and  the 
veritable  —  there's  no  mistaking  it ;  it's  the  month,  of 
—  November ;  and  Tom  Hood  will  tell  you  all  about 
November,  if  you  don't  know  already.  I've  no  doubt 
the  sunshine  would  seem  very  pleasant  once  more. 
Have  you  faith  to  believe  it  will  come  ?  —  What  do 
you  think  now,  with  this  leaden  sky  —  this  drizzle, 
fog,  mud  ?  Do  you  discover  any  promise  in  these 
dingy  mornings  and  starless  nights  ?  If  it's  a  fair 
question,  do  you  consider  it  likely  the  sun  will  ever 
shine  again  ? 

Don't  despair,  my  Editor  !     It's  dubious  enough,  but 

"  Some  days  must  be  dark  and  dreary." 

We've  had  an  arrival  and  a  departure.  Ellen  has 
come  —  with  the  best  of  recommendations  ;  and  Mary 
has  gone  —  with  our  best  wishes  for  her  happiness. 
It  was  not  an  abrupt  departure.  It  was  a  thing  under 
stood  and  inevitable.  She  has  no  objection  to  serving 
at  Trifleton  House,  but  she  is  looking  forward  to  reign- 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  151 

ing  in  her  own.  She  would  be  queen  where  Robert  is 
king. 

She  was  one  of  Prig's  earliest  friends,  and  has  been, 
ever,  one  of  his  most  faithful.  Many  a  weary  night 
has  she  watched  over  him,  with  Pat.,  when  he  has 
been  sick,  in  times  past.  When  we  have  had  sorrows 
she  has  grieved  for  us  and  with  us  ;  and  when  we 
have  had  joys  she  has  cordially  rejoiced.  And  you 
are  requested  to  inform  the  world  through  the  columns 
of  your  valuable  paper,  that  Pat.  has  promised  to  at 
tend  her  wedding,  and  that  I  have  serious  thoughts  of 
bewildering  her  with  some  spoons. 

It's  very  natural,  I'm  willing  to  admit,  that  you 
should  be  anxious  to  hear  more  about  our  baby.  But 
then  there's  no  occasion  for  your  so  bursting  with 
curiosity  in  regard  to  it.  You're  very  deep,  very  deep 
indeed,  to  say  nothing  upon  the  subject.  But  I  under 
stand  it.  It's  a  sly  game  to  draw  me  out,  sir,  and  I 
would  resent  it — I  would  foil  you  at  your  own  wea 
pons,  and  be  u  mum,"  were  it  not  that  "  there  never 
was  such  a  baby  !  "  Quotation  marks,  you  perceive. 
The  words  are  Pat.'s.  Unless  I'm  mistaken,  she  has 
thus  remarked  to  me  more  than  once.  I've  done  what 
I  could  for  you.  I  have  said  repeatedly,  "  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Editor  have  got  a  baby  as  well  as  we,  and  they 
think  "  there  never  was  such  a  baby  "  as  theirs.  Pat.'s 
exact  words  have  always  been  in  reply  —  if,  as  a  ve 
racious  historian,  I  must  recount  facts  —  "  Well,  Trifle, 
let  them  think  so.  It  can  do  no  harm.  All  I  can  say 
is,  I  know  i  there  never  was  such  a  baby  '  as  ours." 
And,  in  addition  to  this,  she  is  of  the  opinion  that  he 
is  "  a  lamb."  She  says,  a  hundred  times  a  day  to  him, 


152  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

"  you  sweet  lamb  ;  —  you  pet  lamb,  you  !  "  She  has 
had  no  means  of  knowing  whether  I  concurred  in  this 
opinion,  and  so  she  asked  me  a  few  days  since,  in 
rather  a  sheepish  way  : 

"  Don't  you  think  he's  a  perfect  lamb,  Trifle  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Pat.,  I  think  he  is.  I'm  reminded  of  his  lamb 
like  qualities  about  a  dozen  times  every  night,  when 
he  cries  so  sweetly  that  the  idea  of  one's  going  to 
sleep  is  quite  out  of  the  question." 

"  Well,"  said  she,  with  a  fling  of  her  head,  "  I  like 
to  see  a  '  wide  awake  boy.' " 

"  Oh,  you  do,"  I  observed,  astonished  at  this  brilliant 
remark  from  Pat.,  as  you  may  readily  conceive.  "  Has 
Pink  been  here  to-day  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Trifle,  and  she  said,  too,  that  there  was  noth 
ing  like  having  "  a  wide  awake  boy." 

u  Why,  how  queer  !  " 

"  So  I  think  ;  but  I  was  telling  her,  you  know,  that 
we  thought  the  baby  cried,  considerably,  nights." 

"  Oh  !  —  and  so  she  thinks  just  as  you  do  about  it. 
Well,  that's  clever." 

I  think,  my  hungry  Editor,  that  you  would  better 
come  and  try  the  preserves,  for  who  is  (or  are)  to  eat 
them,  unless  it  be  the  coming  generations,  I'm  at  a  loss 
to  know.  Why,  sir,  Pat.  has  the  morbidest  passion 
for  preserving.  There's  nothing  she  hasn't  preserved, 
and  nothing  she  won't  preserve.  She  intends  to  pre 
serve  this  correspondence,  even. 

I  think  I  informed  you  in  regard  to  the  tomatoes. 
Well,  sir,  it  was  the  same  with  the  grapes.  The  in 
different  bunches  Pat.  bribed  a  small  boy  to  pluck  for 
our  table  ;  but  upon  one  vine,  in  particular,  hung  high 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  153 

and  tempting  a  peck  or  two,  as  I  should  "  reckon," 
(to  use  one  of  Pat.'s  elegant  words,)  of  as  fine,  large, 
handsome  grapes  as  you  ever  saw.  I  said  to  myself, 
"  I  will  let  these  ripen  well,  and  then  I  will  send  them 
to  the  Editor.  He  and  Mrs.  Editor  will  be  pleased, 
and  (you  perceive  my  cunning)  he  will  write  most 
gorgeous  accounts  of  them  in  his  paper,  and  thus  the 
fame  of  the  Trifleton  grapes  will  extend  throughout 
the  world. 

Day  after  day  I  watched  them  —  eagerly,  proudly 
watched  them,  till,  on  a  certain  occasion,  I  found  the 
vine  entirely  stripped.  It  was  as  naked  of  grapes  as 
young  ladies  past  twenty-five  are  of  hopes  of  conquest 
and  marriage.  It  turned  out  that  the  small  boy  had 
earned  another  quarter,  and  Pat.  had  been  all  day  en 
gaged  in  preserving. 

And  so  with  the  quinces.  I  aimed  at  drawing  a 
prize  at  some  horticultural  fair  with  them.  But  they 
shared  the  same  fate.  I  was  permitted  to  gaze  at  them 
after  they  were  "  done."  But  only  for  a  moment. 
They  are  now  buried  in  relentless  jars,  and  hid  away 
in  our  cellar,  to  grow  hard  and  mouldy  for  the  coming 
generations. 

Not  only  did  our  fall  pears  go  the  same  way,  but 
Pat.  said  they  were  "  too  few/'  Hence  we  purchased 
more  in  order  to  have  "  enough."  And  we've  got 
enough,  I  assure  you. 

I'm  aware  that  there  is  a  necessity  for  your  paper's 
going  all  over  the  world  ;  but  I  think  it  would  be  well 
to  withhold  the  issue  which  shall  contain  this  letter  — 
from  the  Crimea.  I  want  no  Russian  army  at  my 
doors  in  search  of  supplies.  It  is  pleasant  for  me  to 


154  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

reflect  that  posterity  will  pass  judgment  on  Pat.'s  pre 
serves. 

It  would  be  entirely  useless  to  attempt  to  tell  you  of 
the  pickles.  From  minutest  cucumbers  up,  and  im 
mense  mangoes  down  to 1  can't  tell  what,  we 

have  "  enough  "  —  for  a  host ;  and  therefore  I  will  let 
them  pass. 

It  seems  Pink  has  informed  Pat.  of  a  conversation 
she  has  recently  had  with  Stubs,  which  is  of  such  a 
character  that,  as  a  chronicler  of  important  events,  I 
feel  bound  to  communicate  it.  Pink  narrated  it  to 
Pat.  under  the  injunction  of  strict  secrecy,  which  is, 
doubtless,  her  reason  for  having  imparted  it  to  me  ;  — 
for  they  do  say,  (or  used  to,  in  town,)  that  a  secret 
burns  in  a  woman's  keeping,  as  much  as  a  shilling 
burns  in  a  boy's  pocket. 

Pink  was  in  the  act  of  reading  a  letter  from  Mm. 
It  was  an  interesting  letter,  inasmuch  as  it  was  an  offer 
of  his  hand  —  corn-colored  gloves  and  all.  It  descant 
ed  upon  her  attractions,  and  hinted  at  an  establishment 
in  the  Fifth  Avenue,  with  an  equipage,  livery,  etc.  in 
the  winter,  and  a  cottage  at  Newport  in  the  summer. 
It  abounded  in  the  common-places  of  devotion  and 
what  not,  and  wound  up  with  an  extract  from  some 
unknown  poet,  which,  being  interpreted,  signified  that 
somebody  was  very  wretched,  and  would  continue  to 
be  so  unless  somebody  came  to  the  rescue.  In  a  word, 
the  letter  was  touching  to  a  degree,  except  that  there 
was  no  heart  in  it,  as  Pink  readily  observed.  Like  a 
true  woman  she  felt  hurt  and  insulted.  Stubs  entered 
the  room,  and  found  her  flushed  and  excited.  He  was 
himself  pale,  fidgetty,  and  evidently  off  his  guard.  He 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  155 

didn't  perceive  that  his  visit  was  inopportune.  He 
began,  abruptly,  as  he  always  does  — 

"  Pink,  I  am  going  away  from  home  soon,  as  you 
know,  and  I  want  to  talk  with  you  seriously." 

"  You  are  always  talking  seriously.  What  do  you 
wish  to  say  ?  Has  any  thing  new  occurred  ?  " 

"  No,  but  I  am  about  to  leave  you  for  some  time. 
I  am  perplexed  and  anxious.  I  need  your  sympathy, 
affection  —  love." 

"  Well ! " 

"  Upon  certain  conditions,  that  is." 

"  Such  as " 

"  That  you  will  meet  me  with  your  real  nature,  and 
promise  me " 

«  What  ?  " 

"  Nothing  if  you  choose  to  adopt  this  tone." 

"  You  are  critical  to-day,  as,  indeed,  when  are  you 
not  ?  But  I  am  not  bound  to  please  you." 

He  was  hurt  at  this  remark,  but  continued, 

"  You  can  please  me  when  you  try  to." 

"  I  can  please  many  without  trying."    (Proudly.) 

"  True.  Everybody  admires  you  that  sees  you, 
but  they  do  not  see  your  faults.  I  admire  everything 
about  you  but  your  faults." 

"  Indeed  !  You  are  quick  to  perceive  faults.  — 
Have  you  none  of  your  own  ?  " 

"  Many,  but  I  strive  to  conquer  them.  When  I  fail, 
nobody  deplores  it  more  bitterly  than  myself.  Life  is 
a  discipline,  and  character  a  struggle.  Paul  and  David 
were  true  men,  but  they  accomplished  a  great  victory 
by  conflict  with  themselves." 

"  What  is  the  point  of  this  preaching  ?  " 


156  TRIFLETON   PAPERS. 

"  The  point  is  simply  this.  You  know  how  tenderly 
I  love  you  when  you  are  yourself.  Will  you  promise 
me  to  be  yourself — to  have  done  with  all  that  is  not 
simple  and  natural  —  to  be,  as  you  are  capable  of  be 
ing,  a  true  and  genuine  woman  ?  For  my  sake,  will 
you  do  this  ?  I  have  asked  you  often  before.  I  have 
told  you  my  views  of  life  again  and  again.  You  have 
conformed  to  them,  and  then  acted  in  opposition  to 
them  ;  —  made  me  happy  and  made  me  wretched.  I 
believe  you  love  me,  and  I  am  ready  to  devote  my 
whole  existence  to  you  :  but  I  must  tell  you  once 
more,  and  I  hope  for  the  last  time,  that  I  love  you 
more  for  what  I  think  you  are  capable  of  being,  rather 
than  for  what  you  are  now.  During  Prig's  illness  you 
seemed  lovely  beyond  account,  and  I  wore  you  in  my 
heart  of  hearts.  Why  can  you  not  be  always  thus  ? 
Why  persist  in  causing  those  who  love  you  best  to 
make  your  life  and  your  opinions  the  subject  of  con 
tinued  criticism  ?  —  Why  unsay  to-day  what  you  said 
yesterday  :  —  appear  to-day  full  of  feeling,  generosity, 
and  nobleness  of  nature,  and  to-morrow  giddy,  frivo 
lous,  heartless  almost !  Why  contradict  yourself  con 
stantly  and  forever  ?  " 

She  heard  him  through.  As  I  have  said,  she  was  in 
no  mood  to  be  talked  to  in  such  a  manner  ;  and  com 
pletely  losing  her  self-control,  she  rose  from  her  seat, 
and,  with  a  flashing  eye,  said, 

"  When  I  need  your  instructions,  I  will  ask  for 
them.  When  you  need  my  sympathy,  you  can  ask 
fbr  it  in  fit  terms.  My  affection  you  never  had,  and 
never  can  have.  It  is  already  engaged.  Your  affec 
tion  you  can  bestow  where  it  will  be  appreciated ; 


TRIFLE-TON    PAPERS.  157 

but  when  you  find  the  woman  who  attaches  the  same 
value  to  it  that  your  own  conceit  does,  you  will  find  a 
person  whom  you  are  authorized  to  address  in  such  a 
manner,  and  in  such  language,  as  you  cannot  afford  to 
address  to  me  ;  "  —  and  then  swept  out  of  the  room. 

Thus  it  was  they  parted. 

So  she  told  it  to  Pat.,  and  so  Pat.  told  it  to  me.  And 
said  Pat.,  moreover, 

"  After  she  told  me,  poor  girl,  she  cried  as  if  her 
heart  would  break,  which  I  can't  quite  understand,  as, 
true  it  is,  that  immediately  after  leaving  Stubs,  (which  I 
forgot  to  mention  before, )  she  rushed  to  her  room,  and 
dashed  off  a  letter  accepting  the  offer  of  the  house  in 
the  Fifth  Avenue  and  the  cottage  at  Newport." 

I  have  always  supposed  before  that  an  engagement 
was  a  subject  for  congratulation  and  rejoicing  —  not 
tears.  However,  I  have  been  directed  to  say  never  a 
word  about  it  to  Pink,  and  therefore  I  do  not.  But  if  a 
house  in  the  Fifth  Avenue,  and  a  cottage  at  Newport, 
and  a  husband  with  corn-colored  gloves  be  not  enough 
to  make  a  woman  happy,  for  goodness  sake  what 
is? 

"  I  will  teach  him  who  I  am.  I  will  sweep  by  him 
in  a  carriage  such  as  his  whole  fortune  cannot  buy. 
I'm  glad  his  property  is  involved  in  a  lawsuit.  I  hope 
he  will  lose  it  all.  I  detest  him,  and  hate-  him-." 

All  this  she  said,  as  Pat.  informs  me,  and  she  told 
her  also  that  Stubs  would  be  humbled  to  the  dust,  and 
she  would  be  elevated  herself  to  the  front  rank  in  York 
society. 

Stubs  has  left  us,  and  will  probably  spend  most  of 
the  winter  in  Washington  City.  He  left  abruptly. 


158  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

I  have  been  reading  Longfellow's  new  poem,  "The 
Song  of  Hiawatha."  I  read  it  at  one  sitting — every 
word  of  it.  But  I  don't  think  it  will  ever  be  a  popular 
poem,  in  the  ordinary  acceptation  of  that  word.  It 
hasn't  the  scope  and  completeness  of  his  "Evangeline." 
It  is  rather  a  string  of  Indian  legends,  which  hang  well 
enough  together,  but  which,  several  of  them,  would  be 
quite  as  good  and  as  perfect  by  themselves.  The  story 
underlying  them  is  well  told,  but  not  so  skilfully  as 
it  might  be.  The  fragments  of  "  Hiawatha's  "  life  are 
somewhat  too  detached.  In  a  word  it  don't  travel  so 
continuously  from  its  beginning  to  its  close  as  it  might. 
Its  growth  is  not  steady  enough.  It  jumps  by  fits  and 
starts.  However,  this  is  of  small  consequence,  and  a 
more  careful  reading  might  satisfy  me  that  my  criti 
cism  would  not  apply. 

There's  a  freshness,  and  gush,  and  tenderness  about 
this  poem  that  there  is  in  all  Longfellow  writes.  It 
may  not  make  you  wiser  to  read  it,  but  it  will  make 
you  better,  if  you  read  it  through,  that  is.  —  There's 
the  same  story  of  life  that  is  everywhere  apparent  in 
this  sad  world ;  the  same  toil  and  struggle,  the  same 
sunshine  and  shade,  the  same  grief  and  pleasure,  the 
same  hope  and  disappointment,  the  same  death  and 
tears  ;  beautifully  depicted  in  this  Indian  tale. 

To  be  fully  appreciated  it  should  be  read  out  in  the 
woods,  of  a  hot  summer's  day,  under  the  branches  of 
the  forest  trees,  by  the  banks  of  gushing  streams,  and 
amid  the  murmuring  of  brooks  and  fountains.  As  you 
read  it  in  your  study,  even,  you  seem  to  be  listening  to 
the  sighing  of  the  pine  trees,  the  voice  of  falling  water, 
and  the  music  of  singing  birds — the  "  Owaisa," 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  159 

the  blue  bird,  and  the  "  Opechee,"  the  robin  —  and 
almost  fancy  you  hear  the  chattering  of  the  squirrel 
(Adjidaumo),  and  see  the  rabbit  (Wabasso)  leaping  and 
scampering  before  you. 

The  rhythm  of  the  poem  is  very  quaint,  musical  and 
sweet.  In  fact,  I  think,  as  Pink  once  said,  "  Longfel 
low  is  painfully  sweet  and  more  than  sufficiently  ten 
der.  A  little  of  Tennyson's  sourness  and  snappishness 
would  do  him  good."  But  he  is  always  chaste,  pure 
and  religious.  You  will  never  become  worse  by  read 
ing  what  he  writes,  but  if  you  are  affected  at  all, 
you  will  be  made  better.  He  is  not,  thank  God, 
of  the  miserable  and  detestable  school  of  "  Childe 
Harold  "  and  "  Maud." 

I  wish  I  had  time  and  room  to  say  more  of  this 
poern,  and  to  make  some  extracts,  but  I  have  not.  It 
seems  to  me,  though,  to  indicate  a  thorough  study  and 
appreciation  of  Ossian.  In  "  Chibiabos  "  (the  musi 
cian),  we  arc  reminded  of  Ovid's  "  Orpheus ;  "  and 
in  the  story  of  "  Osseo  "  and  "  Oweenee,"  we  have 
Ovid's  exquisite  "  Philemon  and  Baucis "  in  some 
sense  reproduced. 

I  shall  put  this  poem  where  you  cannot  find  "Maud  " 
—  in  my  library  ;  —  and  some  of  these  days,  under 
the  Trifleton  trees,  I  shall  take  my  afternoon  cigar  — 
when  the  summer  comes  again  —  and  read  or  rather 
sing,  its  gushing  and  oftentimes  plaintive  measures  to 
Prig,  whose  ear  is  full  of  music,  and  whose  soul  is  full 
of  poetry.  I  can  tell  by  him  whether  it  be  simple  and 
natural.  I  know  he  will  drink  in  every  word  of  Hia 
watha's  first  hunting  expedition,  will  be  absorbed  in 
the  story  of  his  wedding  tour,  and  stand  dumb  with 


160  TRIFLETON    PAPEES. 

grief  at  the  last  words  of  his  beautiful  bride,  "  the 
dying  Minnehaha." 

On  the  whole,  I  should  say  the  poem  is  musical  and 
beautiful  —  "nothing  shorter" — and,  of  its  kind, 
admirable.  But  it  is  not  of  a  high  order.  There  have 
been  three  poets  in  the  world,  —  Shakspeare  —  Milton 
—  Motherwell." 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  161 


XVIII. 


THE  ARM  CHAIR, 
As  Thanksgiving  approaches. 

WE  are  not  quite  sure,  most  sapient  Trifle,  that  we 
shall  be  able  to  digest  all  your  remarkable  sayings  in 
season  for  our  Thanksgiving  dinner.  We  hardly  know 
which  to  dispose  of  first,  but  the  serious  and  weighty 
observation  that  "there  have  been  three  poets  in  the 
world,"  has  troubled  us  most,  being  much  like  the 
incubus  resulting  from  a  hearty  supper. 

But  "  three  'poets  in  the  world  !  "  Shades  of  Homer 
and  Virgil !  of  Dante,  Petrarch,  and  Tasso  !  of  Chaucer 
and  Spenser  !  of  Wordsworth  and  Campbell !  of  Shelley, 
and  Keats,  and  Byron  !  is  this  to  be  forgiven  !  And  if 
you  forgive  it,  will  the  unnamed  poets  —  not  few  nor 
nameless  —  will  they  all  forgive  a  judgment  like  that  ? 
"Three  poets  in  the  world!  "  Ah,  ye  living  aspirants 
for  a  crown  on  the  summit  of  Parnassus,  what  shall 
you  do  ?  Three  poets  in  the  world,  and  Motherwell 
the  third.  Oh !  —  we  assent.  There  have  been  three 
poets,  Shakspeare,  Milton  and  Motherwell  —  and  seve 
ral  others. 

But  of  the  Song  of  Hiawatha.  Pray,  are  you  afraid 
lest  you  commend  too  freely?  Some  there  are  who 
think  criticism  is  fault-finding,  and  value  an  opinion  on 
11 


162  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

a  book  only  as  it  dissects  it  and  throws  it  to  the  dogs. 
Was  it  for  such  reason  that  you  commend  with  quali 
fications  in  your  commendations  ?  As  you  go  on,  you 
turn  the  leaves  of  the  poem,  and  its  beauties  beam 
forth  so  that  you  forget  your  allowances,  and  speak  as 
the  heart  feels. 

You  say  it  lacks  the  scope  and  completeness  of 
Evangeline,  which  is  all  true  enough,  from  the  very 
nature  of  the  subject.  But  because  it  is  "  a  string  of 
Indian  legends,"  some  of  which  would  be  as  perfect 
by  themselves,  does  not  detract  from  the  merit  of  the 
poem  as  a  whole.  Its  purpose  was  to  collate  and  ideal 
ize  a  series  of  such  legends,  and  we  think  that  the  poet 
has  given  us,  in  truth,  a  string  of  gems.  It  would  not 
have  been  difficult  for  him  to  have  told  the  story  of 
Hiawatha's  life  more  skillfully  —  that  is,  a  more  con 
tinuous,  detailed  story,  which  should  run  on  from 
beginning  to  end  smoothly  and  connectedly.  But  it 
would  have  been  necessary  to  have  supplied  from  the 
imagination  what  is  wanting  in  the  legends,  so  that  the 
story  would  have  lost  half  its  interest  and  its  beauty. 
It  was  the  poet's  purpose  simply  to  give  us  those  old 
legends  of  the  aborigines,  in  the  language  of  poetry, 
which  is  so  well  adapted  to  them.  Idealizing  as  the 
poet  should,  adorning  with  his  fancy,  adapting  lan 
guage  to  the  thought,  but  making  no  new  story,  it 
seems  to  us  that  Mr.  Longfellow  has  admirably  ac 
complished  his  purpose,  and  has  given  us  a  poem  of 
rare  and  peculiar  beauty.  Not  without  its  faults  is  it ; 
but  when  we  have  a  feast  of  good  things  let  us  not 
single  out  some  spice,  or  sauce,  or  mode  of  dressing, 
which  does  not  exactly  suit  our  taste  ;  —  let  us  rather 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  163 

delight  in  and  be  thankful  for  so  much  that  is  pleasant 
to  us. 

Now  is  not  the  whole  of  Hiawatha's  childhood  beau 
tiful  ?  Well  may  you  read  it  to  Prig,  for  if  he  is  what 
you  say  he  is,  —  and  parents  are  never  deceived,  you 
know, —  he  will  tell  you  how  the  rhythm,  and  the  choice 
and  quaint  yet  simple  language,  convey  to  him  the 
story  of  the  wondrous  boy  of  the  Indian  legend.  He 
will  feel  the  spirit  of  the  time  and  place  —  the  wilder 
ness  in  the  age  of  the  hunter  —  as  he  hears  how  sang 
the  Owaissa  and  the  Opechee,  "  Hiawatha's  chickens," 
and  how  gamboled  the  squirrel,  rabbit,  beaver  and 
deer,  u  Hiawatha's  brothers." 

Still  more  beautiful  is  "  Hiawatha's  wooing,"  wherein 
he  seeks 

"  Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 
Loveliest  of  Dacotah  women." 

And  having  wooed  as  the  red  man  wooed,  and  won  the 
ancient  arrow-maker's  daughter,  how 

"  Pleasant  was  the  journey  homeward 
Through  interminable  forests," 

where  everything  in  nature  seemed  to  smile  upon  and 
bless  them. 

The  story  of  Mondamin  —  the  origin  of  maize  — 
has  been  told  in  verse  by  Bayard  Taylor,  but  not  in  a 
style  so  adapted  to  the  legend,  or  so  beautiful  as  this 
by  Longfellow.  It  is  one  of  the  most  pleasing  of 
Indian  legends,  and  loses  none  of  its  grace  in  these 
lines. 

One  of  the  most  touching  portions  of  the  poem  is 


164  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

"  The  Famine,"  in  which  there  is  a  sound  of  forebod 
ing,  of  sadness,  of  sorrowful  tenderness  —  even  in  the 
music  of  the  words.  We  see  Hiawatha,  heavy-hearted, 
in  the  desolate  forest  seeking  hopelessly  for  food  for 
Minnehaha,  and  we  hear  the  echoes  answering  his  cry 
of  agony,  "  Minnehaha,  Minnehaha  !  "  And  in  the 
desolate  wigwam  we  almost  feel  the  presence  of  the 
weird  shadows,  that  in  his  absence  had  crossed  the 
darkened  threshold,  sitting  by  the  dying  Minnehaha. 
Solemn  and  sad  and  low  come  to  us  her  words,  as 
she  passes  away 

"  To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 
To  the  Kingdom  of  Ponemah, 
To  the  Land  of  the  Hereafter." 

Doubtless,  to  enjoy  this  song  of  Hiawatha,  you  must 
yield  yourself  to  the  spirit  of  the  legend,  and  suffer 
the  poet,  using  the  quaint  language  which  the  theme 
suggests  to  him,  to  carry  you  far  back  into  the  shadowy 
Past.  Critics  who  sit  themselves  down  in  the  present, 
who  measure  lines  and  weigh  words  by  modern  stan 
dard  weights  and  measures,  can  no  more  appreciate 
the  real  beauties  of  Hiawatha,  than  they  could  were 
it  chanted  in  the  language  of  the  Dacotahs.  It  was 
not  written  for  such,  and  the  music,  the  spirit,  the 
thought  of  the  song  are  wasted  on  them. 

It  is  all  very  well  for  you,  vainglorious  Trifle,  to 
talk  about  that  baby,  now  that  your  garden  at  Trifleton 
House  is  desolate,  and  you  have  no  more  tomatoes  to 
praise.  But  after  all,  your  thoughts  seem  to  dwell  as 
much  with  those  jars  of  preserves,  hid  away  in  the 
recesses  of  your  cellar  —  beside  those  silver-tops,  doubt- 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  165 

less  —  as  with  the  little  Trifle  that  disturbs  your  slum 
bers.  And  your  praises  of  this  young  scion  on  your 
family  tree,  why,  they  are  absolutely  nothing  to  those 
which  neighbor  Timmins's  wife  bestows  on  her  child, 
the  very  homeliest  of  plain  babies,  who  was  offered  for 
a  prize  at  the  baby  show.  We  are  not  to  be  scared  by 
such  glorification  —  but  it  is  quite  pardonable  in  you  to 
think  we  should  be.  No,  sir — we  don't  believe  all 
you  say. 

Pickles,  preserves  and  babies !  Well,  Trifle,  we 
should  think  you  might  be  prepared  for  Thanksgiv 
ing.  Thanksgiving,  the  Pilgrim  "  institution,"  the  fes 
tival  of  the  fireside,  around  which  cluster  so  many 
hopes  and  joys  in  the  tmfashionable  world  of  New 
England,  is  coming.  The  trees  are  leafless,  the 
gardens  are  desolate,  the  snowflakes,  avant-couriers 
of  old  winter,  are  falling  lightly  on  the  dry  leaves. 
The  out-door  pleasures  of  summer  and  early  autumn 
are  gone,  but  around  the  hearth-stone  there  are  new 
and  more  genial  pleasures,  bright,  warm,  lasting.  The 
harvests  are  gathered,  and  are  plentiful,  notwithstand 
ing  high  prices  deny  it ;  peace  is  here  —  albeit  the 
London  Times  attempted  to  break  it ;  pestilential  airs 
have  not  blown  hitherwards.  For  all  which,  and  for 
the  blessings  innumerable  that  have  fallen  like  gentle 
showers,  let  there  be  thanksgivings,  — thanksgivings  in 
the  highways  and  by-ways,  in  unbroken  circles  from 
rich  to  poor.  Even  in  the  desolate  chamber  of  pinched 
poverty,  let  there  be  thanksgiving,  O,  thou  fortunate 
neighbor  of  the  suffering !  that  there  may  be  truer 
thanksgiving  around  thine  own  hearth.  And  more 
than  all,  let  there  be  thanksgiving  in  the  heart,  for 


166  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

bounties  an3  blessings,  for  mercies  and  joys,  — 
thanksgiving  that  shall  crown  the  past,  garland  the 
passing  hours,  and  bring  serenest  slumbers  to  the 
pillow.  Such  be  Thanksgiving  at  Trifleton  House. 

If  your  expect  us  —  you  and  the  inquisitive  Mrs. 
Trifle  —  to  "  tell  all  about "  the  Hards,  you  must 
send  us  a  supply  of  stationery.  In  the  meantime 
we  have  only  an  item  or  two  to  mention.  And  in 
the  first  place,  Abel  Hard  has,  at  last,  ended  his  search. 
Umber  has  received  a  letter  from  him  in  which  he 
relates  how,  by  chance,  he  found  that  those  whom  he 
sought,  Lily  and  her  father,  had  left  the  land  of  the 
prairie  to  dwell  on  English  soil.  Republican  airs  did 
not  suit  the  old,  but  broken  down  and  disheartened 
aristocrat,  so  well  as  the  more  accustomed  fogs  of 
monarchy ;  so  they  had  gone  to  Canada  West,  and  on 
the  borders  of  Lake  Erie  they  had  found  a  home, 
where  he  hoped  to  hide  —  riot  to  forget  —  his  sor 
rows,  and  she  hoped  —  nothing,  save  to  devote  herself 
to  the  comfort  of  the  parent  whom  she  followed  from 
friends  and  luxuries  and  joys,  to  the  hardships  of  the 
wilderness.  Thus  Hard  writes  : 

"  I  have  found  her,  the  dream  of  years,  at  last.  You 
remember  her  beauty  at  Florence,  —  that  beauty  beam 
ing  with  the  light  of  a  pure  soul,  which  entered  my 
heart  and  dwelt  there  ever  after ;  it  still  is  hers,  only 
it  is  moro  spiritual  now,  and  softened  by  sadness. 
That  musical  voice  —  you  heard  it  once  —  which 
charmed  rny  ear  in  Italy,  with  all  its  well  remem 
bered  sweetness,  but  with  a  tone  more  touching  for 
the  sorrows  she  has  known,  greeted  me  —  welcomed 
me  to  her  humble  home  on  the  shores  of  Erie.  Wei- 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  167 

corned  me  ;  —  tones  utter  more  than  words,  and  there 
was  something  —  it  might  be  gratitude — which  gave 
a  tenderness  to  her  salutation. 

"Not  to  have  forgotten  me  was  something,  but 
to  remember  with  emotion  was  more  than  I  had  dared 
to  hope.  Nay,  more  than  this  have  I  learned,  even  in 
so  brief  an  intercourse.  My  love  for  her  had  been  to 
me  so  old  a  thing  that  I  forgot  'twas  new  to  her,  and 
abrubtly  hinted  it  —  confessed  —  explained — I  know 
not  what.  Was  it  altogether  gratitude  that  received 
the  story  with  such  gentleness  and  maiden  modesty  — 
such  looks,  such  tears  ?  On  a  beautiful  spot,  overlook 
ing  the  blue  waters  of  Lake  Erie,  hope  beamed  upon 
a  love  born  on  the  banks  of  the  Arno.  But  alas ! 
clouds  are  even  here,  and  disappointment  may  tread 
roughly  on  the  heels  of  hope.  Her  father's  will  — 
more  imperious  under  his  misfortunes  —  is  uncertain. 
The  hold  which  her  delicate  health,  under  new  scenes 
and  hardships,  has  upon  life,  is  yet  more  uncer 
tain." 

Thus  much  we  read  of  Abel  Hard's  letter  in  Um 
ber's  Studio.  On  the  easel  before  us  was  a  portrait, 
not  yet  finished,  but  beautiful.  It  was  the  face  of 
Eel  Hard  —  not  clouded  with  a  look  of  languor  or 
of  discontent  or  of  sorrow,  nor  cold  with  the  heart- 
lessness  of  fashion — but  her  beautiful  features  lit  up 
with  the  light  of  youthful  happiness,  the  expression 
of  her  girlhood,  long  since  departed.  In  short,  it 
was  her  face  idealized  by  the  memory  of  Umber, 
to  whom  her  girlhood  is  an  ever  present  thought? 
and  who  had  painted  her  as  she  was,  or  as  she 
might  have  been.  Urnber  was  slowly  and  thought- 


168  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

fully  putting  a  few  touches  to  the  picture.  He  was 
silent  and  sad,  and  as  he  was  manifestly  in  no  mood 
for  conversation,  we  involuntarily  passed  off  into  a 
reverie  on  the  picture  before  us.  From  this  we  were' 
suddenly  startled  by  the  entrance  of  Madame  Hard, 
Bel,  and  the  Hon.  Mr.  Weed.  What  followed  we 
may  tell  another  time. 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  169 


XIX. 


IN  TOWN, 

Thanksgiving  week. 

"  BAG  and  baggage,  Trifle  and  Pat.,  and  baby  and 
Kate,  with  all  but  Ellen,  who  is  indigenous  to  the 
Trifleton  House  whereabouts,  and  hates  to  leave  (and 
whom  we  have  therefore  left  in  charge  of  the  Trifleton 
forks  and  spoons),  we  have  come  up  to  town  for  the 
Thanksgiving  Jubilee.  Prig  has  been  here  these  two 
weeks,  and  has  become  quite  "  city-fied."  I  am  getting 
on,  myself.  •!  have  already  visited  "  the  club,"  and 
played  a  few  match  games  of  billiards  by  way  of  re 
calling  old  times,  and  because  we  "  country  folks  " 
have  a  very  natural  desire  to  "  look  around  a  little," 
when  we  visit  the  great  city.  I  was  warmly  welcomed 
with  "  Trifle,  how  are  you?"  and  "  Why,  bless  me, 
Trifle,  what  a  stranger  !  "  and  "  Glad  to  see  you  back 
my  boy  !  "  dec.,  dec.,  dz;c. 

I  was  immediately  pressed  into  a  match  with  three 
of  the  best  players  in  the  club,  and  there  was  a  most 
piquant  curiosity  to  see  how  I  would  play.  You  re 
member,  probably,  that  I  used  to  play  what  was  con 
sidered  rather  a  "  strong  game,"  and  asked  no  points 
from  anybody. 

As  I  seized  my  cue,  I  confess  I  shared  somewhat 


170  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

the  anxiety  of  my  partner,  who  paid  me  the  com 
pliment  of  demanding  odds  from  our  opponents,  on 
the  ground  of  my  being  "  out  of  play,"  —  which  I 
refused  in  the  most  dignified  manner.  However,  the 
first  time  my  hand  was  in,  I  made  a  run  of  thirty-one, 
"  round  the  table  "  and  "  without  scratching."  I  should 
have  made  more  if  the  balls  hadn't  "  kissed,"  (what 
nuisances  these  kisses  are),  and  my  partner  began  to 
feel  easier.  I  will  "  only  add,"  as  the  young  ladies 
say  in  their  postscript,  that  the  side  Trifle  was  on  beat 
"  the  rubber." 

On  going  home,  I  informed  Pat.  of  this  instance  of 
tremendous  dissipation,  and  expected  a  huge  "  curtain 
lecture,"  but  was  let  off  without  one.  As  a  compensa 
tion,  I  am  to  take  her  and  Prig  to  the  Museum  some 
Saturday  P.  M.,  to  witness  one  of  those  "  Spectacles  " 
Kimbal!  is  constantly  getting  up  for  such  simple  and 
untutored  "  country  folks  "  as  we  are.  Mr.  Kimball  is 
a  very  kind  man. 

1  received  this  morning  the  following  missive  : 

"  RESPECTED  SIR,  — 

Having  been  apprized  of  your  arrival  in  Boston,  we  are  de 
sirous  of  extending  to  you  the  freedom  of  the  city.  We  would, 
therefore,  take  the  liberty  to  ask  you,  at  your  earliest  conven 
ience,  to  indicate  to  us  the  hour  and  place  most  acceptable  to  you 
for  meeting  your  fellow-citizens. 

Most  obsequiously  yours, 

SEVERAL  WIRE  PULLERS,  AND 

SOLID  MEN  OF  BOSTON." 

In  the   absence   of  Stubs,  I  asked   Pat.   what  this 

meant.     She  said,  "  Why,  that's  the  way  they  always 

'  do,  when  distinguished  men  travel.     The  wire  pullers 


TR1FLETON    PAPERS.  171 

and  the  noodles  invite  them  to  public  dinners,  &c.,  for 
the  sake  of  extorting  a  letter  out  of  them,  and  glorify 
ing  themselves.  So  Mr.  Clay  used  to  tell  us,  long 
before  I  knew  you.  You  must  write  a  letter  declining 
the  invitation,  which  will  indicate,  you  know,  that, 
though  possibly  you  may  be  half  crazy  about  it,  you 
consider  it  a  small  matter  for  a  person  of  your  con 
sideration.  Make  it  as  pompous  and  ridiculous  as 
possible,  or  it  will  not  be  apropos  and  in  keeping 
with  what  the  '  great  men '  usually  do  in  such  cir 
cumstances. 

The  fact  is,  Mr.  Editor,  Pat.  lived  in  the  atmosphere 
of  Washington  too  long,  and  saw  too  many  "  great 
men,"  not  to  find  them  out.  Hence  her  sharpness 
upon  them,  I  suppose. 

With  her  assistance,  I  drafted  the  following  letter, 
which  I  am  about  to  despatch  at  once  : 

"  SOLID  MEN  OP  BOSTON  : — 

GENTLEMKN  :  Impressed  as  I  am  with  the  conviction  that  you 
are  solid  as  solid  can  be,  from  head  to  foot,  (if  I  may  use  the 
expression,)  I  hasten  to  reply  to  your  favor,  offering  to  me  the 
freedom  of  your  city.  I  remember  how  cordially  you  threw 
open  the  doors  of  Faneuil  Hall  to  the  late  lamented  statesman  of 
the  North,  on  a  certain  occasion  ;  and  how  unwilling  you  were 
—  men,  women  and  children  —  to  take  any  notice  of — to  look 
at,  even  —  the  distinguished  Mr.  Charles  Dickens,  on  his  ar 
rival  in  your  midst,  so  that  he  was  obliged  to  write  a  book  in 
order  to  depict  your  extreme  reserve. 

These  capital  instances,  with  many  others  I  might  mention, 
show  you  to  be  a  people  capable  of  great  self-respect,  simple  in 
your  tastes,  not  likely  to  run  after  foreigners,  and  disposed  to 
appreciate  the  men  in  your  midst. 

The  freedom  of  a  city  like  yours,  I  need  not  tell  you,  I  regard 


172  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

as  invaluable  ;  but  I  regret  to  say  that  I  shall  not  have  time  to 
attend  to  the  receiving  it  from  your  hands. 

Pat.  wishes  me  to  suggest,  that  public  honors  are,  doubtless, 
far  preferable  to  domestic  quiet  and  enjoyment,  or  you  would 
not  have  extended  to  me  this  unmerited  invitation,  and  that  we 
shall,  therefore,  try  to  fitly  appreciate  your  invitation  and  — 
yourselves. 

I  remain,  Gentlemen, 

With  the  most  distinguished  consideration, 
Your  obedient  servant, 

TRIFLE,  of  Trifleton  House." 

In  order  that  you  may  know  how  we,  distinguished 
men,  do  these  things,  I  will  inform  you  that  I  wrote 
the  above,  and  asked  and  accepted  Pat's  criticism  upon 
my  draft.  She  said  she  thought  it  was  silly  enough, 
and  therefore  would  do.  That  she  didn't  imbue  it 
with  her  own  cleverness,  to  some  extent,  I  will  not 
attempt  to  maintain. 

There's  nothing  like  consulting  your  wife.  I  have 
the  best  authority  for  knowing  that  the  lamented  Chan 
cellor  Kent  got  puzzled  in  deciding  his  first  equity 
cause,  and  went  home  and  asked  u  ma'am  "  what  she 
thought,  and  decided  as  she  said  was  right.  If  she  was 
as  "  smart "  as  Pat.,  she  was  a  good  wife.  Most  of  my 
consequence  I  owe  to  Pat. 

We  have  had  invitations  to  several  parties,  but 
intend  to  decline  them  all.  We  are  told  that  it  is 
considered  indispensable,  now,  for  the  men  at  parties 
to  walk  on  their  toes,  and  "  wriggle "  about  in  the 
most  absurd  manner,  and  for  the  women  to  "bwad- 
dle  "  in  huge  hoops,  which,  even  if  Pat.  approved 
them,  I  should  be  tempted,  almost,  to  flatly  inter 
dict. 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  173 

Are  you  informed  whether  or  not  there  is  a  degree 
of  absurdity  which  women  are  incapable  of  approach 
ing,  in  matters  of  dress?  This  is  no  inquiry  of  mine, 
but  of  a  cynical  old  bachelor  I  was  talking  with  yes 
terday.  With  huge  profanity,  he  said  —  "  these  hoops 
look  like  the  d 1  !  "  Are  you  not  shocked  ? 

But,  chiefly  and  mostly,  rny  present  duty  is  to  speak 
of  our  having  come  "  home  "  for  Thanksgiving. 

This  is  a  great  gathering  with  us,  for  the  Trifles 
are  as  distinguished  for  their  numbers  as  for  other 
things,  and  we  all  come  "  home  "  and  dine  with 
"  father  and  mother  "  on  Thanksgiving  day.  — 
The  boys  and  the  girls,  (for  such  we  are  still  to  each 
other,  though  several  of  us  are  past  forty,)  with  their 
Prigs,  babies  and  servants,  all  come  home  and  live 
the  past  over  again  on  that  festive  occasion.  For 
many  years,  we  met  with  unbroken  ranks,  and  num 
bers  constantly  increasing.  But  in  this  sad  world 
there  must  be  deaths  as  well  as  births,  and  if  you 

walk  down Avenue,  in  Mount  Auburn,  you  will 

find  where  "Stella"  is  buried.  She  was  the  first  to 
leave  us,  and  our  hearts  are  now  more  in  Heaven, 
for  did  not  the  Master  affirm  "  where  your  treasures 
are,  there  will  your  hearts  be  also,"  and  she  is  now 
there,  as  we  trust.  Our  youngest  brother,  too,  is 
away  —  in  a  land  beyond  the  seas.  Our  prayers  are 
with  him,  and  we  know  his  are  with  us.  We  shall 
miss  his  pleasant  face  at  the  table,  to-morrow,  and 
listen  to  his  cheerful  laugh  in  fancy  only.  May  God 
bless  him,  and  after  a  brief  season,  bring  him  home  in 
safety  to  our  midst ! 

Stella's  children  will  be  with  us.     They  love  no- 


174  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

body  better  than  "  grandma "  and  'l  Aunt  Louise," 
which  is  scarcely  saying  much,  for  I  never  saw  any 
body  who  didn't  love  them.  The  heart  of  the  latter 
has  been  the  repository  of  all  her  brother's  secrets, 
anxieties  and  yearnings  for  years,  (she  is  capable  of 
keeping  a  secret,  in  spite  of  her  sex,)  and  the  heart  of 
the  former  is  large  enough  to  comprehend  a  host.  In 
fact,  "  mother"  is  a  wonderful  peacemaker  and  union 
preserver.  She  has  managed  to  keep  us  all  united  in 
affection  and  interest  thus  far  in  life,  and  the  Union  of 
these  States  would  never  be  in  danger  if  she  were  in 
the  President's  Cabinet.  Her  mission  is,  indeed,  a  no 
ble  one,  but,  as  diplomatists  shine  best  when  treating 
the  most  difficult  and  hazardous  questions,  so  is  she 
most  herself  when  family  cares  and  perplexities  thicken. 
When  she  has  nothing  to  trouble  her,  she  appears  to 
be  least  happy. 

If  you  wish  to  be  informed  in  regard  to  my  father, 
you  must  ask.  Prig.  He  knows  him  best.  I  find  noth 
ing  in  my  daily  walks,  more  grateful  to  me,  (and  to 
Pat.,  too,  for  that  matter,)  than  the  affection  subsisting 
between  Prig  and  his  u  Grandpa." 

There  are  some  pleasant  features  in  this  life,  af 
ter  all.  I  like  to  see  them  "  take  a  walk  "  together. 
After  tea,  the  Journal  and  Transcript  having  been 
despatched,  advertisements  and  all,  my  father  takes  a 
couple  of  canes  from  the  entry,  and  handing  one  to 
Prig  says,  "  Come,  Prig,  let's  walk  down  about  as  far 
as  the  "  Old  South,"  or  "  the  Insurance  Office,"  or 
"  Mr.  Pardy's  !  " 

Prig's  fancy  is  addressed,  and  off  they  start.  They 
talk  a  little  at  first,  but,  after  a  while,  they  grow  silent, 


TRIFLETON   PAPERS.  175 

and  my  father  becomes  abstracted  and  lost.  I  under 
stand  it  all.  His  early  associations  come  back,  as  he 
passes,  in  imagination*,  this  spot  and  that.  The  shadows 
of  the  past  hover  about  him,  and  the  companions  of 
his  boyhood  and  early  manhood  —  they  who  have 
one  after  another  gone  before  him,  seem  to  surround 
him,  and  accompany  him.  But  soon  he  clasps,  in 
voluntarily,  the  hand  of  my  boy  more  tightly,  and  as  I 
look  at  him  with  a  carefully  guarded  scrutiny,  which 
he  don't  observe,  I  can  see  that  his  eyes  are  swimming, 
and  he  is  thinking  within  himself,  as  Charles  Lamb  so 
exquisitely  says,  — 

"  All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces." 

And  then,  some  remark  of  Prig's,  such  as,  for  in 
stance,  "  Why,  Grandpa,  you  hurt  my  hand  so  ! "  puts 
an  end  to  his  reflections  and  the  walk. 

And  yet  he  is  a  cheerful  man.  All  the  young  girls 
like  him,  —  "he  is,"  they  say  "so  funny."  When 
we  are  all  together  at  our  family  gatherings,  he  finds 
it  difficult  to  keep  quite  cool.  He  rubs  his  left  elbow 
with  his  right  hand  which  we  all  know  is  a  sure 
sign  of  his  feeling  very  happy,  informs  us  usually 
which  way  the  wind  is,  and  if  any  one  happens  to 
ring  the  door  bell,  we  expect  instantly  (and  we  are 
seldom  disappointed)  to  hear  him  cry,  "  Come  in  !  " 
notwithstanding  two  or  three  servants  are  rushing 
precipitately  to  the  door.  My  mother,  on  such  occa 
sions,  gently  seizes  him  by  the  arm  and  says,  —  "Don't 
alarm  the  neighbors  ;  "  at  which  he  replies  very  vigor 
ously,  "  Who  cares  for  the  neighbors  ?  It's  a  free 
country." 

One  thing  we  can  truly  say.     He   is,  has  always 


176  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

been,  a  conscientious,  sincere  and  single-hearted  man, 
and  with  some  eccentricities  of  character,  the  kind 
est  and  best  of  fathers.  Our  prayer  is,  that  he  may 
live  to  see  and  rejoice  in  the  successes  and  respect 
ability  of  his  children.  All  his  best  thoughts  are  ab 
sorbed  in  them,  just  as  all  his  life  has  been  devoted  to 
them. 

We  look  forward  to  a  happy  Thanksgiving.  Com 
mend  me  to  Mrs.  Editor,  and  tell  her  I  shall  think  of 
you  all  on  that  day. 

Item.  —  Before  we  left  Trifleton  House,  as  Pat. 
tells  me,  Pink  informed  her  that  he  was  expected  at 
her  father's  house,  to  spend  Thanksgiving  and  make  a 
visit,  and  she  was  full  of  regret  that  Pat.  couldn't  stay 
and  help  entertain  him.  Entertain  him,  indeed  !  If 
Pink,  with  all  her  powers  of  fascinating,  finds  it  diffi 
cult  to  entertain  him  before  they  marry,  how  will  it  be 
after  ? 

N.  B.  Just  as  I  was  folding  this  letter,  the  follow 
ing  telegraphic  despatch  came  from  Stubs  : 

BALTIMORE,  Nov.  28th,  '55. 

«'  Please  -provide  fat  Thanksgiving  turkey  for  Goody  Green, 
to-day,  without  fail.'" 

This  is  the  poor  old  woman  of  whom  I  wrote  you 
in  the  early  part  of  this  correspondence,  who  said 
Stubs  was  "  as  good  as  a  minister,"  you  recollect, 
and  also  that  he  was  "  too  good  for  her,"  referring  to 
Pink. 

Privately,  though,  which  please  don't  mention, 
there  was  no  occasion  for  the  despatch,  for  I  ordered 
the  turkey  myself  before  I  left  for  Boston,  for  I  sup 
posed  Stubs  might  have  forgotten  it  in  the  hurry  of  his 
departure. 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  177 

Said  Bol  to  me  —  (Stubs'  man)  —  "  Pm  afraid  he  is 
troubled  in  his  mind,  sir.  He  seemed  very  sad  when 
he  left,  and  as  he  shook  hands  with  me  and  said, 
1  Good-bye,  Bob  ;  God  bless  you  ! '  which  were  jest 
(just)  his  words,  sir,  I  could  hardly  help  crying.  He's 
always  been  very  kind  to  me,  sir,  and  I  shall  be  glad 
when  his  troubles  is  (are)  over." 


12 


178  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 


XX. 


THE  ARM  CHAIR,  > 
In  Winter.      $ 

How  many  lucky  stars  were  in  the  ascendant  when 
you  were  born,  Trifle  ?  We  verily  believe  that  the 
stars  didn't  shine  at  that  important  epoch  of  our  life. 
Or  if  they  did,  they  must  have  been  far  down  towards 
the  western  horizon,  so  that  they  couldn't  see  us.  We 
must  write  from  the  arm-chair  still.  We  can't  "  pack 
up  our  duds  "  and  be  off,  like  you,  —  bag,  baggage 
and  babies,  —  to  town  or  anywhere  else.  If  we  stroll 
away  for  half  a  day,  the  passing  hours  bring  us  back 
again  to  the  arm-chair,  by  the  window  under  the  cher 
ry  tree.  The  cherry  tree  is  disrobed  now,  and  is  like 
any  other  tree.  We  can  only  see  its  old  gray  limbs, 
which  stand  out  stiff  and  stark  against  the  cold  sky, 
defying  the  storms  and  the  howling  winds.  Under 
neath  we  look  out  upon  cheerless  fields,  which  but  a 
short  time  since  were  "  with  verdure  clad."  But  it  is 
the  same  window  and  the  same  arm-chair,  where  we 
write.  Possibly  we  may  go  to  see  the  double  murder 
of  Duncan  and  Macbeth,  or  to  delight  in  the  wondrous 
powers  of  Lagrange  and  the  rich  tones  of  Didiee,  but 
before  the  long  chimes  of  the  night  have  sounded,  here 
we  are  back  again ;  the  chair  extends  its  arms  to  embrace 
us,  and  the  shadows  on  the  wall  tremble  a  welcome. 


TRIFLETON   PAPERS.  J  79 

As  for  the  Hegira  from  Trifleton  House,  why  don't 
you  "  own  up "  to  its  real  cause  ?  You  talk  about 
going  to  town  for  the  "  Thanksgiving  Jubilee," 
which  may  be  accepted  by  the  verdant  and  such  as 
don't  know  you  ;  but  we  put  no  faith  in  such  a  story, 
—  it  is  all  sham.  "  Go  to  town  to  "  spend  Thanksgiv 
ing  ! "  Why,  sir,  everybody  who  goes  to  spend 
Thanksgiving,  goes  into  the  country.  The  truth  is, 
your  departure  from  Trifleton  House  was  a  cowardly 
retreat,  notwithstanding,  like  GortschakofT  or  Menschi- 
koff,  you  call  it  something  else.  You  looked  out  from 
the  windows  and  saw  blue  devils — call  them  goblins 
or  spirits,  if  you  choose  —  playing  about  your  garden, 
dancing  over  the  frozen  clods  or  the  dead  plants,  and 
scowling  and  mocking  at  you  from  the  grim  old  trees. 
You  heard  them  howl  and  laugh  as  the  blast  came  off 
the  sea.  You  shuddered  and  were  vanquished.  You 
packed  up  and  hurried  away  to  the  railroad  station.  You 
besought  the  engineer  to  put  on  all  steam,  and  hardly 
ventured  to  look  from  the  car-window,  lest  some  goblin 
might  have  tracked  you,  and  be  sitting  there,  grinning 
horribly,  even  at  your  elbow.  You  did  not  feel  safe 
till  you  found  yourself  rattling  over  the  pavement  of 
the  great  city,  where  noise  and  gas-light  might  affright 
even  the  bluest  goblin  of  them  all.  Then  you  began 
to  be  relieved,  to  talk,  to  laugh  even,  and  to  glorify  the 
comforts  of  town.  Thanksgiving  !  —  doubtless  you 
were  thankful  at  your  escape,  —  but  the  "jubilee" 
was  only  a  very  convenient  cover  for  your  inglorious 
retreat. 

You  needn't  deny  it,  and  in  truth  you  have  shown 
more  pluck  than  many  city  folk.  We  have  neighbors, 


180  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

—  for  three  months  in  the  year  —  who  leave  the  city 
when  all  the  beauties  of  spring  are  past,  and  who  think 
of  returning  when  the  swallows  disappear,  (which  is 
about  the  twenty-fifth  of  August,  mark  you,  Trifle  )• 
and  are  not  to  be  caught  out  of  town,  when  the  first 
ripened  leaf  falls.  You  have  done  better  than  they, 
and  kept  the  enemy  at  bay  until  winter  brought  up  the 
reserve  ;  then  you  fled.  But  do  not  despair ;  a  cam 
paign  or  two  will  strengthen  you,  and  in  time  you  will 
conquer. 

But  behold  the  rural  Trifle  in  town  again  !  We  said 
something  about  habits  once,  and  you  took  offence  at 
our  allusion  to  your  old  coat.  But  as  easily  as  the  old 
coat  the  city  habits  are  slipped  on,  it  seems,  and  sit  as 
comfortably.  The  first  thing  you  do  is  to  go  to  the 
club  and  play  billards,  asking  no  odds  of  anybody  and 
bragging  of  the  game  you  play.  The  game  at  bil 
liards  finished,  you  sit  down  to  other  "  game,"  doubtless, 
and  your  old  fondness  for  discussing  "  canvas-backs," 
"  grouse  "  and  "  venison,"  with  the  "  fixins,"  returned 
undirninished.  Since  you  are  so  fond  of  game,  why 
didn't  you  "  die  game,"  before  quitting  Trifleton 
House  ?  For  your  dissipation  you  were  conscious  of 
deserving  a  "  curtain  lecture,"  but  the  innocent  and 
amiable  Mrs.  Trifle  has  evidently  relied  too  much  upon 
the  good  influences  of  Trifleton  garden,  and  couldn't 
imagine  that  Trifle  would  so  far  "  forget  himself, "  as 
to  return  to  that  "  vile  club"  and  to  —  his  old  game, 
at  the  very  first  opportunity. 

We  cannot  but  admire  the  self  denial  with  which  you 
decline  the  honors  tendered  to  you  by  the  "  wire  pul 
lers  "  and  "  solid  men "  of  Boston.  We  have  no 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  181 

doubt  that  the  offer  was  really  as  delightful  to  you  as 
the  incense  of  poor  pigmy  mortals  might  be  to  some 
snuffing  Olympian  divinity,  and  we  can  only  wonder 
that  your  conceit  permitted  you  to  decline  so  distin 
guished  and  urgent  and  unusual  an  invitation.  Dinners 
and  presentations  and  testimonials  were  wont,  a  long 
time  ago,  to  be  quite  common,  and  the  honor  was  of  no 
account ;  but  now  they  are  of  very  rare  occurrence  and 
are  only  u  extended  "  to  the  most  distinguished  men  of 
the  day,  such  as  the  very  greatest  defaulters,  pugilists 
and  other  operators,  or,  now  and  then,  to  a  famous 
policeman  —  famous  on  the  principle  of  "  setting  a 
rogue  to  catch  a  rogue,"  —  and  sometimes  to  some 
plucky  runner  with  the  "  machine."  As  such  honors  are 
bestowed  only  upon  the  most  distinguished  characters 
of  this  sort,  they  are  so  much  the  more  to  be  prized. 
While,  therefore,  we  commend  the  unexpected  modesty 
which  has  seemed  to  govern  your  conduct  in  this  mat 
ter,  we  are  all  the  more  surprised  that  it  should  have 
triumphed  over  your  conceit  when  so  severely  tempted. 
However,  as  you  say,  you  have  a  good  wife,  and  owe 
much  besides  your  "  consequence  "  to  her. 

There  are  several  matters  to  which  you  seem  to 
invite  attention,  but  they  are  subjects  such  as  engross 
the  thoughts  of  city  folk  only,  and  we  shall  not  enter 
into  any  such  barren  fields,  notwithstanding  you  so  in 
vitingly  "  leave  down  the  bars."  As  for  the  inquiry 
of  your  cynical  old  bachelor,  "  whether  or  not  there  is 
a  degree  of  absurdity  which  women  are  incapable  of 
approaching,  in  matters  of  dress,"  —  if  the  amiable 
and  sagacious  Mrs.  Trifle  can't  answer  it,  we  refer  you 
to  the  first  long-skirted  dandy  that  you  meet,  one  of 


182  TRIFLETON   PAPERS. 

those  individuals  who  seem  so  anxious  to  assume 
petticoats. 

We  were  telling  you  how  Madame  Hard,  and  Bel, 
and  the  Hon.  Mr.  Weed  came  into  Umber's  studio,  to 
inspect  the  picture.  As  he  heard  their  step,  Umber  re 
tired  behind  a  curtain  into  a  little  room  adjoining  the 
studio,  and  we  were  left  alone  to  welcome  the  visitors, 
which  was  done  after  the  city  fashion  that  we  acquired 
from  you,  —  that  is,  as  well  as  we  could  attempt  so 
stupendous  a  lesson.  The  formalities  being  over,  they 
turned  towards  the  easel.  Madame  first  spoke. 

"  Ah,  here  is  Bel.  But  really,  I  should  scarcely 
recognize  my  daughter.  It  has  a  resemblance,  —  the 
features  are  like,  but  it  lacks  expression."  (Ah ! 
Madame,  there  is  a  most  expressive  smile  on  that 
face.)  "It  does  not  show  the  maturity  and  bearing  of 
Bell ;  it  is  too  like  a  school  girl." 

The  Hon.  Mr.  Weed  looked  at  the  picture  with  a 
face  expressive  of  a  prolonged  "  Humph  !  "  Then  he 
glanced  at  Bel,  who  was  flushed,  and  bit  her  lip.  He 
thought  she  was  indignant,  so  he  uttered  his  criticism. 

"  It  is  not  at  all  like  the  original.  It  wants  the  air  of 
a  high-bred  lady."  (Of  course  it  does,  for  the  heart  — 
a  good  one  too  —  is  in  the  face,  and  high-bred  ladies 
never  reveal  that.)  "  It  lacks  character,  too.  It  is 
quite  unfortunate  that  this  young  artist  does  not  suc 
ceed  better." 

And  the  Hon.  Mr.  Weed's  face  resumed  its  half 
contemptuous  look,  as  he  and  Madame  both  turned  to 
Bel  to  inquire  her  opinion.  While  Bel  had  been  look 
ing  at  the  picture  she  had  been  struggling  with  some 
emotions  which  had  caused,  as  we  observed,  her  face 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  183 

to  flush  and  grow  pale.  But  she  responded  quickly 
and  somewhat  bitterly  to  the  inquiring  looks  — 

"  No,  it  is  not  like  me,  or  I  know  not  my  own  fea 
tures  and  expression." 

Just  then  Umber  returned  and  courteously  saluting 
his  visitors,  gave  them  no  time  to  speak  of  the  picture 
or  to  apologize  for  the  criticisms. 

"  Pardon  me  for  leaving  this  ideal  head  upon  the 
easel.  We  sometimes,  for  a  study,  attempt  to  give  to 
portraits  which  we  paint,  —  especially  beautiful  faces, 
—  an  expression  entirely  different  from,  and  sometimes 
in  strong  contrast  with  that  of  the  original,  showing 
the  force  of  character  and  feeling  in  changing  the  self 
same  features.  This  is  Miss  Hard's  portrait." 

And  he  placed  another  canvas  beside  the  condemned 
picture.  He  spoke  pleasantly  and  quietly,  as  he  usually 
does,  but  with  just  a  slight  tone  which  might  reach 
accustomed  ears.  Here  was  the  portrait  of  Bel  Hard, 
indeed,  and  so  it  was  greeted  by  Madame  Hard  and 
and  the  Hon.  Mr.  Weed. 

"  Excellent,  —  Bel  herself !" 

"  An  admirable  likeness." 

"  The  features  are  very  correct,  and  the  expression 
life-like." 

"  The  bearing  and  air  of  the  original.  A  charming 
picture ! " 

Bel  was  silent.  Her  eye  turned  from  one  picture  to 
the  other,  and  she  evidently  contrasted  the  two.  The 
new  picture  was  perfect  in  its  portrayal  of  features, 
and  they  wore  the  proud,  cold  expression  which  she 
wears,  with  a  slight  shadow  of  discontent  or  unhappi- 
ness.  In  this  last  respect  the  artist  has  flattered  her, 


184  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

for  the  shadow  on  her  face  is  deeper  than  in  the  por 
trait,  —  deeper  than  it  was  under  the  summer  foliage. 
To  her  the  words  of  Umber  were  full  of  a  meaning 
which  did  not  reach  the  apprehension  of  the  others  ; 
and  she  must  have  been  pondering  them  or  the  con 
trast  between  the  two  pictures,  else  why  did  she  start 
so  when  Madame  asked  her  what  she  thought  of  the 
portrait  ? 

"It  must  be  good,  since  you  and  Mr.  Weed  find  it 
so  excellent.  The  artist  best  knows  whether  he  has 
done  justice  to  his  subject.  But  if  the  picture  is  satis- 
factory  to  the  one  who  ordered  it  —  1  am  content." 

There  was  a  peculiar  tone  to  her  voice,  as  if  she 
intended  something  more  than  her  words.  Possibly 
Umber  noticed  it,  but  the  Hon.  Mr.  Weed  evidently 
did  not,  judging  from  his  words  — 

"  It  gives  me  great  pleasure  to  commend  the  artist's 
fidelity,  and  my  admiration  for  the  picture  is  only  sec 
ond  to  that  for  the  original." 

Bel  bowed  coldly  to  this  formal  compliment,  and 
Umber  deigned  no  notice  of  his  share  of  it.  It  was 
rather  awkward  for  us  to  witness  the  embarrassment 
of  the  parties  in  the  silence  which  followed.  But  it 
was  soon  relieved  by  the  Hon.  Mr.  Weed  condescend 
ing  to  request  Umber  to  finish  the  portrait,  which  being 
done  in  due  form,  as  we  suppose,  the  visitors  departed. 
They  had  been  gone  but  a  moment,  however,  when 
the  door  opened  again  and  Bel  Hard  reappeared, 
somewhat  impetuously.  There  was  a  flush  of  anger 
in  her  face,  but  there  was  the  softness  of  tears  in  her 
eyes.  But  perhaps  it  was  not  anger.  She  spoke  in 
a  suppressed  but  passionate  tone  to  Umber  who  met 
her. 


TRIFLETON   PAPERS.  185 

"  Why  have  you  done  this  ?  " 

"What?" 

"  These  pictures  —  have  you  not  painted  them  to 
make  me  hateful  to  myself  r — to  show  to  all  beholders 
the  contrast  —  that  was  your  word  —  between  me  as  I 
am,  cold  hearted  and  miserable,  —  for  such  you  make 
me,  —  and  what  I  should  be  if  you  could  form  my 
character,  and  display  it  in  my  face  ?  " 

"  Have  I  not  painted  your  portrait  to  meet  the  ap 
probation  of  those  who  see  you  oftenest  ?  " 

"  And  know  me  least,  —  you  have." 

"  That  portrait  was  for  their  eyes." 

"  And  the  other  was  to  show  the  virtues  and  graces 
which  I  have  not." 

u  No.  It  was  a  study  —  of  memory  and  hope,  in 
tended  some  time,  perhaps,  for  your  own  eye,  but 
chiefly  for  my " 

"  Amusement !  But  why  then  was  it  displayed 
here  ? " 

"  Not  by  my  desire.  You  surprised  it,  and  your 
friends  summarily  condemned  it.  It  had  no  meaning 
except  to  your  eye,  —  and  since  to  you  alone  it  pos 
sessed  meaning,  I  can  scarcely  regret  that  it  was  left 
there  to  produce  impressions." 

"  And  read  me  a  lesson  on  my  deficiencies  !  That  is 
a  new  province  for  your  art,  and  an  assumption  on 
your  part  of  duties  which  belong  to  you  by  no  right  *or 
privilege.  You  do  no  good  in  your  attempt.  You 
simply  make  me  miserable.  If  that  be  a  pleasure  to 
you,  you  are  richly  rewarded." 

"  Bel ! " 

But  she  was  gone. 


186  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 


XXI. 


STILL  IN  TOWN,  ) 

About  the  time  of  the  Winter  Solstice.  } 

YES,  the  Winter  of  1855  has  come.  It  absolutely 
startled  me  to  see  the  heading  of  your  last  letter  — 
"In  Winter;"  but  Time  lapses,  whether  you.  and  I 
are  conscious  of  it  or  not.  Since  this  correspondence 
commenced,  the  Summer  and  the  Autumn  of  '55  have 
passed  over  our  heads,  and,  as  you  say,  we  have  cross 
ed  the  threshold  of  Winter.  When  we  were  boys,  a 
half  a  year  seemed  like  an  Eternity  almost.  What  is 
it  now  ?  Immersed  as  we  are  in  the  anxieties  and 
small  frettings  of  life,  the  seasons  pass  by  us,  and 

" overcome  us  like  a  Summer's  cloud, 

Without  our  special  wonder." 

We  grow  older,  but  do  we  grow  better —  more  gen 
erous,  simple,  truthful,  self-denying?  That  single 
word  "  self-denial  "  chiefly  describes  life.  Do  you, 
then,  live,  my  Editor?  Do  you  brace  up  against  diffi 
culties,  and  carry  a  vigorous  heart  against  the  world, 
saying,  **  Confessedly,  oh  world,  you  bear  pretty  hard. 
You  are  sufficiently  relentless.  You  fight  against  me 
rather  sharply,  and  at  times  I'm  disposed  to  cry  for 
quarter  ;  but  then,  you  see,  there's  Mrs.  Editor  and  all 
the  little  editors.  —  I'll  beat  you  yet,  and  carry  the 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  187 

glory  home,  for  I've  discovered  how  to  l  put  the  world 
under  my  feet,'  and  I  will  show  you  '  what's  what ' 
before  we  get  through  !  "  Do  you  put  it  on  to  the 
world  thus,  my  Editor? 

We  are  about  making  preparations  to  return  to  Tri- 
fleton  House.  We  have  seen  the  "  folks "  and  they 
have  seen  us.  We  have  dined  out  sufficiently,  and 
everywhere  we  have  been,  Pat.'s  good  looks  have  cre 
ated  a  sensation.  They  say  she's  grown  hearty  and 
ruddy.  Who  denies  it  ?  They  say  she  never  looked 
so  well  before  in  her  life.  It's  no  lie.  Her  lips  are 
red  and  her  teeth  white  (notwithstanding  these  days  of 
degenerate  teeth,)  and  her  eyes  sparkle  with  the  vivac 
ity  of  excellent  health. 

"  Why  is  it,  sir  ?  "  —  "  why  is  it  ?  "  I'm  astonished 
to  hear  you  ask.  It's  because  we  live  at  Trifleton 
House,  and  we  are  determined  to  go  back  there.  A 
little  of  "  town  "  will  do,  but  too  much  of  it  is  very 
like  too  much  champagne.  Headache,  you  perceive. 
Everything  not  perfectly  plain  and  simple,  must  be 
indulged  in  sparingly. 

Good  bye,  Town ! 

I  have  had  a  letter  from  Stubs,  which  I  enclose.  It 
seems,  which  I  have  only  learned  recently,  that  there 
is  a  lawsuit  now  pending  in  the  Supreme  Court  of  the 
United  States,  involving  the  validity  of  the  title  of  the 
principal  part  of  his  property.  I  have  known  all  the 
while  during  the  Summer,  that  he  was  interested  in 
the  result  of  this  suit,  but  not  to  what  extent.  For 
some  good  reasons,  no  doubt,  he  has  been  uncommu 
nicative  respecting  it.  He  usually  tells  me  everything 
and  desires  my  sympathy  and  advice.  But  perhaps  he 


188  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

thought  it  would  be  foolish  (as  doubtless  it  would  be) 
to  talk  with  such  a  person  as  Trifle  respecting  any 
thing  so  dry  and  musty  as  law. 

Like  many  rich  young  men,  Stubs  has  studied  for 
the  profession  of  law,  and  been  admitted  to  the  bar. 
But  he  has  never  cared  to  practice,  except  to  take  care 
of  his  own  property,  &c.  He  has  capacity  enough. 
Indeed,  if  his  inclination  were  equal  to  his  capacity, 
he  would  shine  at  the  bar.  But  here  you  have  his  let 
ter  :— 

"WASHINGTON  CITY,  DEC.  1855. 
My  dear  Trifle:  — 

I  have  been  dawdling  in  this  rendezvous  of  squab 
bling  politicians,  for  some  days.  It  is  sufficiently  stu 
pid.  The  wrangle  for  the  Speakership  progresses. 

The  place  hasn't  changed  much  since  we  were 
here  last.  Pennsylvania  Avenue  wears  the  same  look. 
The  same  four-legged  donkeys  flourish  on  one  side  of 
it,  and  the  same  two-legged  ones,  if  anything  a  little 
more  blase,  strut  on  the  other.  The  same  exquisite 
Republican  simplicity  of  costume  distinguishes  the  fair 
sex,  as  they  trip  along  the  pavement,  or  gossip  in  and 
about  the  Capitol.  Can  there  be  any  danger  to  the 
safety  of  our  country,  so  long  as  the  women  are  so 
serenely  simple,  and  so  little  addicted  to  show,  out 
doors,  and  luxury,  in-doors  ? 

If  the  wife  of  a  Congressman,  who  gets  eight  dol 
lars  a  day,  and  sells  all  his  self-respect  oftentimes  for 
even  that,  '  admires  '  feathers,  and  silks,  and  what  not, 
why,  it's  none  of  my  business.  Let  her  wear  them. 
Women  in  England  and  France  dress  somewhat  differ 
ently,  it  is  true,  at  least  in  the  street.  But,  then,  that's 
nothing.  They  are  not  Republicans,  you  know. 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  189 

The  accessions  to  the  Capitol  are  progressing  quite 
rapidly,  and  will  vastly  improve  its  appearance.  As  I 
have  wandered  about  the  Rotunda,  looking  at  the  pic 
tures,  I  have  thought  a  good  deal  of  times  past,  when 

we  stood  in  the  same  place  with  Pat.  and ,  before 

Pat.  became  your  better  half!  You  remember  the  old 
leaky  omnibus  and  the  drive  in  the  rain,  when,  Jwrri- 
bile  dictu,  Pat.'s  bonnet  got  soaked  doubtless.  We 
have  lived  years  since  then,  Trifle.  At  least  I  have, 
and  experience  has  been  my  teacher.  I  have  idled 
enough  of  my  life  away,  and  I  am  resolved  to  go  to 
work.  I  find  the  older  1  grow,  that  I  am  more  inclined 
to  judge  men  by  what  they  have  done,  and  that  I  have 
very  little  respect  for  such  as  merely  exist,  with  no 
definite  aim  in  life,  and  accomplish  nothing.  Energy 
is  a  great  trait  in  a  man,  or  a  woman.  Whoso  is  at 
work  has  no  time  to  sentimentalize  and  —  grumble. 

After  some  conversation  with  my  counsel,  I  have 
resolved  to  open  our  case,  myself.  I  do  not  appear  as 
a  party  on  the  record,  so  that  the  world  will  not  know 
that  I  have  a  '  fool  for  a  client,'  although  I  shall  be 
practically  arguing  my  own  case,  because  the  Court's 
decision  in  the  case  we  propose  to  argue,  will  settle  all 
the  law  points  in  which  I  am  interested.  The  docket 
is  much  crowded,  and  we  shall  not  be  reached  for  some 
weeks,  probably.  I  spend  most  of  my  time  examining 
the  authorities  cited  in  the  respective  briefs.  You  can 
judge  somewhat  of  the  work,  when  I  tell  you  they 
number  more  than  five  hundred.  Lawyers  from  every 
part  of  the  United  States  are  constantly  rushing  in  and 
out  of  the  Law  Library,  where  I  am  now  sitting.  They 
are  mostly  men  of  distinction  at  home  ;  but  I  can  see 
their  nervousness  as  they  are  preparing  their  arguments 


190  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

for  the  Court  here  —  the  highest  in  the  land.  They 
feel,  probably,  that  they  must  sustain  that  reputation 
which  they  have  labored  so  hard  and  so  long  to  acquire 
elsewhere. 

I  have  an  advantage  over  most  of  them  in  this 
respect,  because  I  have  no  reputation  to  lose.  I  have 
one  to  make. 

I  go  into  the  court  room  every  day.  There's  a 
charm  about  the  place  which  is  almost  sacred.  There 
is  something  in  the  appearance  of  the  nine  venerable 
judges,  in  that  little  chamber,  removed  from  all  the 
world,  which  reminds  one  of  the  Roman  senators  in 
the  palmiest  days  of  the  Republic.  They  look  like 
men  who  have  lived  down  all  the  hot  anxieties  and 
wretched  frivolities  of  life,  and  have  conquered  them 
selves.  1  think  there  is  more  benignity  and  childlike 
simplicity  of  character  expressed  in  the  countenance 
of  Mr.  Justice  McLean,  than  I  have  ever  seen  in  any 
other  man.  Did  you  ever  remark  that  all  great  men 
are  exceedingly  gentle  and  simple,  both  in  looks  and 
manners  ? 

I  have  listened  to  some  of  the  arguments  before 
the  Court  with  great  satisfaction.  A  masterly  one  from 
the  distinguished  Attorney  General  of  the  United 
States,  excited  in  me  the  same  mingled  feelings  of 
4  admiration  and  despair,'  which  Chancellor  Kent  said 
he  always  felt  in  reading  Blackstone's  lucid  chapter 
upon  Contingent  Remainders.  Not  many  abler  men 
live  than  Caleb  Gushing.  I  have  been  admitted  as  a 
member  of  the  Court  upon  his  motion. 

I  have  looked  in  upon  the  Senate  occasionally,  but 
with  feelings  of  pain.  I  saw  neither  Webster,  nor 
Clay,  nor  Calhoun  there  ;  and  I  thought  of  the  time 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  191 

gone  by  when  we  heard  these  great  men  in  the  debate 
upon  the  Compromises  of  1850. 

We  shall  never  hear  again  such  eloquence  as  we 
heard  then,  and  we  shall  never  see  again  living  in  this 
country  such  men  as  these  men  were.  In  their  loss, 
the  prestige  of  the  Senate  seems  to  have  been  lost. 

In  the  great  political  struggles  impending  over  our 
country,  which  will,  in  my  judgment,  shake  more  terri 
bly  than  ever  before  the  union  of  these  States  to  its 
centre,  who  and  where  are  the  men  to  lead  and 
guide  us  with  safety  ?  God  grant  that  they  may  ap 
pear  when  the  crisis  comes,  as  it  must  inevitably 
sooner  or  later !  If  we  were  only  more  intensely 
American,  and  National,  and  Republican  ;  if  we  would 
only  appreciate  the  contrast  between  the  condition  of 
the  rest  of  the  world,  immersed  in  war  as  it  is,  and 
our  own  blessed  country,  it  seems  to  me  we  should 
have  none  of  these  sectional  animosities  and  bickerings 
which  threaten  our  peace  and  salvation,  and  these 
States  might  remain  forever  united  and  compacted  in 
bonds  of  fraternal  affection. 

I  need  not  tell  you  how  much  I  miss  you,  and  dear 
Pat.,  to  whom  please  give  my  warmest  regards.  I  am, 
indeed,  very  lonely,  and  am  much  weighed  down  with 
anxiety  and  responsibility.  I  care  very  little  in  regard 
to  the  result  of  this  lawsuit  in  a  pecuniary  point  of  view. 
I  ought  to  earn  my  own  living,  and  I  respect  in  one 
sense,  the  mere  day  laborer  who  toils  for  bread  by 
which  to  feed  his  wife  and  children,  more  than  the  rich 
man  who  idles  his  life  away.  I  will  be,  henceforth,  no 
'  curnberer  of  the  ground.'  I  will  do  what  I  can  for  my 
self  and  my  kind.  I  need  to  live  more  out  of  myself. 
I  have  been  too  selfish  and  inert,  and  I  look  upon  my 


192  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

effort  here  as  promising  to  furnish  my  initiary  step  to  a 
more  rnanly  and  useful  career.  I  feel  ashamed  when 
I  think  how  little  I  have  accomplished  in  life,  and  how 
little  of  real  humanity  there  is  in  my  nature.  My  dis 
cipline  should  make  me  better,  and  yet,  dear  Trifle,  I 
am  very  rebellious.  You  have  your  devoted  and  affec 
tionate  wife  and  children  to  soothe  you,  and  soften  you, 

and  make  you  happy.     I  have nobody.     I  am  all 

alone.  My  life  is  becoming  dreary  and  desolate.  This 
I  tell  you,  because  I  must  tell  somebody.  Else  I  should 
quite  break  up.  It  is  unnecessary  that  I  should  ask 
you  to  keep  my  weak  complainings  secret.  You  are 
my  second  self.  But  farewell,  and  God  bless  you  ! 
The  enclosed  verses  I  wrote  last  night. 

Your  sincerely  attached  STUBS." 

*'  When  will  this  weary  heart  find  rest, 

These  stragglings  all  be  done  ; 
When  learn  that '  all  that  is,  is  best,' 
When  be  the  victory  won  ? 

When  grow  insensible  to  grief, 

And  learn  —  no  more  to  fed  ; 
When  have  no  yearnings  for  relief, 

No  sufferings  to  conceal  ? 

When  will  this  fearful  weight  of  care 

Cease  to  oppress  my  soul  ?  — 
This  fierce,  relentless,  black  despair 

Loose  me  from  its  control  ? 

Peace  !  babbling  child  of  sin:  not  thine 

Life's  mysteries  to  explain; 
'Mid  night,  and  dark,  the  stars  still  shine, 

And  rainbows  follow  rain." 

I  have  no   comment  to  make  upon  this  letter.     It 
needs  none. 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  193 


XXII. 


THE  ARM  CHAIR, 
As  Christmas  comes. 

IT  is  not  in  vain,  then,  that  you  have  lived  at  Trifle- 
ton  House  a  few  months.  The  town  tires  you.  You 
confess  it  is  like  champagne  —  a  little  too  sparkling 
and  exciting,  and  brings  the  headache.  Yet  are  we 
a  little  astonished  at  your  fickleness.  Undeniably 
you  ran  away  from  the  blues  when  they  first  at 
tacked  you  at  Trifleton  House,  and  when  once  in 
town  you  made  a  "dead  rush"  to  the  club,  to  the 
theatre,  to  parties,  to  dinners.  But  now  you  seem 
to  be  surfeited,  and  propose  a  return  to  the  quiet 
of  rural  life,  which  has  unfitted  you  for  the  contin 
uance  of  that  round  of  pleasure,  a  year  ago  an  ab 
solute  necessity  for  your  existence.  But  pray  carry 
back-  all  your  courage,  and  ample  store  of  munitions 
for  the  war  which  you  are  to  wage  against  your  un 
substantial  foes.  Most  potent  of  such  munitions  will 
be  the  prattle  of  Prig  and  the  smiles  of  Pat.  But 
even  these  will  prove  ineffectual,  unless  you  have 
an  abundant  supply  of  content.  Back  to  Trifleton 
House,  then,  and  forget  all  else  of  the  town  save 
Thanksgiving,  and  home,  and  friends. 

The  Winter  has  indeed  come,  though  with  more 
genial  smiles  than  is  his  wont.  But  what  an  unwel- 
13 


194  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

come  guest  he  is  in  some  dwellings,  as  he  thrusts 
himself  in,  and  seats  himself  at  the  very  hearthstone, 
and  looks  coldly  and  sadly  into  the  eyes  of  the  poor, 
and  lays  his  icy  fingers  on  their  hearts  !  None  the 
less  unwelcome  is  he  in  some  more  comfortable 
dwellings,  where  with  harsh  aspect  he  stands  guard 
over  prisoners  who  are  sighing  for  pleasures  far 
away.  Such  dwellings  are  in  the  country,  mostly, 
and  the  prisoners  are  summer  birds  from  the  city. 
Ah,  Trifle,  be  on  your  guard  lest  Winter  prove  such 
an  unwelcome  sentry  over  you.  Ay,  follow  him, 
even,  if  you  can,  into  some  of  those  less  fortunate 
homes  whither  he  goes  to  carry  want,  and  suffering, 
and  despair,  —  follow  him  with  faggots,  if  need  be, 
with  fire  and — food,  and  cheerful,  hopeful  words. 
So  shall  you  carry  the  war  into  Africa,  and  drive 
the  chilly  sentry  from  your  own  door. 

Winter  finds  little  to  tempt  him  at  the  Hard  Man 
sion  now.  He  has  sometimes  apparently  gloated  over 
the  sullen  looks  he  found  there,  and  has  called  to  his 
aid  the  storm  wind  and  his  whole  train  of  fierce  and 
cruel  satellites.  But  Madame,  and  Bel,  and  the  Hon. 
Mr.  Weed  have  gone  to  Washington.  We  have  not 
inquired  whether  the  latter  is  one  of  the  gentlemen 
who  have  been  amusing  themselves  and  the  country 
by  two  or  three  weeks  balloting  for  a  speaker.  Madame 
wrote  to  Abel  to  meet  them  on  the  way,  or  to  hurry 
after  them.  But  Abel  didn't  get  the  letter  till  it  was 
sent  home  after  him,  he  having  arrived  here  a  few 
days  after  the  departure  of  the  party  for  Washing 
ton.  There  is  a  sort  of  whisper  among  the  domestics 
at  the  mansion,  which  came  to  our  ears  after  the  usual 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  195 

fashion,  that  Miss  Bel  was  very  unhappy  about  going, 
although  she  is  to  be  married  soon.  But  you  can't 
depend  on  such  stories,  you  know.  As  for  Abel,  he 
seems  in  no  hurry  to  go,  and  is  evidently  gratified  to 
find  a  little  chance  for  the  indulgence  of  his  own  fan 
cies  without  being  too  closely  questioned  about  them. 
He  is  happier  than  formerly,  but  there  is  still  a  shadow 
on  his  brow,  sometimes,  and  his  heart  is  not  altogether 
at  rest.  A  few  evenings  since  we  visited  him,  with 
Umber.  It  was  a  dark  and  cheerless  night,  and  the 
north  wind  brought  snow  and  sleet  to  tell  us  that  Winter 
is  reigning  prince  over  these  regions.  But  as  we  en 
tered  Abel  Hard's  library  we  found  a  cheerful  contrast 
to  the  cold  storm  without.  The  Cannel  hissed  and 
flamed  in  the  grate,  shedding  a  ruddy  light  over  the 
rich  drapery,  and  the  dark  cases,  and  one  or  two  fine 
paintings.  Abel's  face  glowed  in  the  cheerful  beams 
as  he  welcomed  us  to  that  bright  and  genial  room. 
Next  to  the  almost  forgotten  hickoiy-wood  fire,  give 
us  the  brilliant,  glowing,  earnest  Cannel.  It  warms 
the  soul  as  well  as  the  fingers.  It  addresses  the  sense 
of  sight  and  hearing  as  well  as  touch.  It  cheers  and 
enlivens  everything  and  everybody  that  comes  within 
its  light  and  influence.  Let  us  have  for  real,  cheerful 
warmth,  no  furnaces,  and  registers  emitting  hot  air 
like  breaths  from  Tartarus. 

We  disposed  ourselves  at  ease  about  that  beneficent 
fire,  and  joined  Abel  in  the  enjoyment  of  cigars,  one 
of  which  (contrary  to  the  ordinary  rules  of  the  man 
sion,  he  said)  he  was  already  discussing.  The  weather 
was  nothing  to  us  now,  so  we  didn't  talk  about  that. 
The  shadows  on  the  wall  were  more  attractive  than 


196  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

the  clouds.  Doubtless  Umber  thought  —  he  said  no 
such  thing  —  that  the  brightest  light  of  the  house  was 
gone  —  and  its  darkest  shadow.  We  followed  them  a 
moment  to  Washington,  and  thence  we  hurried  west 
ward,  to  tarry  awhile  with  Abel  by  the  shores  of  Erie. 
Then  we  congratulated  our  host  upon  his  return  to  that 
pleasant  room  and  upon  —  wd  scarcely  know  what. 
At  this  point  of  the  random  interlocution — it  wasn't 
conversation  —  there  was  a  pause,  which  we  severally 
improved  to  watch  the  smoke  curling  gracefully  from 
our  cigars,  and  possibly  to  think.  To  think  deeply, 
however,  at  such  a  time,  would  have  been  a  burden 
and  a  bore.  But  there  was  no  occasion  for  it,  as  Abel 
quietly  assumed  .the  talk  himself,  and  Umber  and  we 
smoked  in  silence. 

"  It  is  two  years  since  I  first  met  Lily  at  Florence, 
—  two  years  the  very  day  I  found  her  on  the  shores 
of  Lake  Erie.  It  was  in  the  Cascine,  where  all  the 
beauty  and  fashion  of  Florence  is  wont  to  display  itself. 
She  was  riding  with  her  father,  and  an  aunt,  or  some 
other  elderly  female  who  took  the  place  of  aunt,  for 
her  mother  was  dead.  By  some  means  —  I  remem 
ber  the  result  better  than  the  means  —  an  accident 
happened  by  which  their  horses  were  affrighted.  The 
ladies  were  still  more  alarmed,  and  really  there  was 
some  danger  which  I  had  the  good  fortune,  by  being 
near,  to  avert.  But  the  gentleman  sprained  an  ancle 
in  jumping  from  his  carriage,  and  the  carriage  was 
broken,  so  here  was  an  opportunity  for  further  service, 
and  to  see  whom  I  had  served." 

Umber's  eye  twinkled  a  little,  but  we  smoked  on  in 
silence. 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  197 

"  I  assisted  the  gentleman  into  his  carriage  again, 
tendering  the  use  of  my  light  trotting  wagon  — a 
genuine  Yankee  carriage  —  so  far  as  it  could  be  of 
service.  I  cannot  describe,  though  indelibly  fixed  in 
my  mind,  the  look  of  mingled  alarm,  anxiety  and 
gratitude  of  the  one  lovely  face  in  that  carriage.  But 
the  result  of  my  offer  was  that  I  had  the  privilege  of 
carrying  home  the  aunt  —  an  accomplished  lady  I 
found  —  instead  of  the  lame  gentleman  or  his  beau 
tiful  daughter.  It  served  the  purpose,  however,  for 
I  discovered  their  residence  and  name,  and  acquired 
the  privilege  of  calling  again." 

We  knocked  the  ashes  from  our  cigars  and  smoked 
on. 

"We  met  —  Lily  and  I  —  not  unfrequently  after 
that.  I  can't  remember  or  tell  all  the  details  ;  but 
we  met,  —  and  her  father  being  confined  to  the  house 
for  sometime  by  his  lameness,  I  sometimes  rode  in  the 
Cascine  with  the  ladies,  or  took  a  drive  into  the  beau 
tiful  country  about  Florence.  I  went  to  the  Uffizii 
galleries,  with  them,  to  the  Pitti  Palace,  and  to  the 
churches ;  and  while  we  gazed  at  the  almost  divine 
beauty  of  Raphael's  paintings,  and  I  listened  to  Lily's 
gentle  voice,  uttering  pure  and  beautiful  thoughts,  —  I 
should  have  been  heartless,  indeed,  had  I  not  loved  her." 

We  looked  in  the  fire  and  smoked  on. 

"I  loved  her,  as  a  young  man  of  sensibility  if  not 
sense,  who  had  led  the  life  of  a  student,  reading  poetry 
and  having  nothing  else  to  think  of,  might  be  expected 
to  indulge  in  the  passion —  for  the  first  time,  and  under 
such  circumstances.  1  never  breathed  it  aloud,  nor 
hoped  that  Lily  responded  to  my  love.  But  somehow 


198  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

she,  or  the  aunt,  discovered  that  I  was  going  mad  — 
and  so  they  took  steps  to  cure  me,  or  make  me  more 
mad.  The  old  gentleman  got  about,  and  then  Lily 
could  not  often  be  seen.  Christmas  and  Twelfth  Night 
we  met  at  one  of  the  churches.  Lily's  manner  was 
constrained,  the  aunt's  was  formally  polite,  and  the 
father's  was  haughtily  civil.  Florence  soon  became 
dull  for  me,  for  I  could  only  take  pleasure  in  the  works 
of  art  which  we  had  visited  together ;  and  they  only 
served  to  remind  me  the  more  forcibly  of  my  loss." 

Umber  unconsciously  —  sighed,  but  we  silently 
smoked  on. 

"  I  went  to  Rome,  and  with  the  fiercest  industry 
visited  galleries,  churches  and  ruins,  studied  frescoes 
and  statuary  and  gazed  at  pictures  —  all  with  a  most 
admirable  unconsciousness  of  what  was  before  me. 
On  the  last  day  of  the  Carnival — an  excellent  illus 
tration  of  things  in  general  as  presented  to  my  mind  — 
I  saw  Lily  and  her  father  again.  Again,  and  for  the 
last  time,  but  it  was  sufficient  to  add  something  to  my 
feelings  and  not  a  little  to  my  folly,  probably.  I  sought 
for  them,  but  I  found  that  they  preferred  to  pass  Lent 
in  Naples.  I  wasn't  fool  enough  to  follow  them,  but 
I  went  to  Venice,  when  I  had  finished  Rome.  But  the 
seal  was  on  me,  and  neither  Venice,  nor  Greece,  nor 
Germany  offered  anything  to  take  the  place  of  Lily  in 
my  mind  or  memory.  On  my  way  home,  I  ventured 
to  call  in  London  at  their  house,  but  it  was  not  in  the 
season  and  they  were  out  of  town.  And  so  I  came 
home,  a  little  melancholy,  perhaps,  and  found  nothing 
here,  or  in  society,  at  watering,  places  or  in  town,  to 
take  the  place  of  the  past. 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  199 

"  Are  you  surprised  that  I  posted  off  at  the  first 
information  that  Lily  was  in  the  country  and  under 
circumstances  so  changed  ?  " 

Of  course  not,  but  we  replied  only  by  a  whiff. 

"  After  a  long  .search  I  found  them.  Lily's  father 
had  lost  his  estates  by  the  turning  up  of  an  heir  sup 
posed  to  have  died  in  India.  Mortified  and  despondent, 
he  had  come  with  a  moderate  fortune  to  this  country, 
seeking  a  home  sufficiently  distant  from  the  new  heir 
and  his  lost  property.  Lily,  though  pressed  by  many 
friends  to  remain  in  England,  felt  it  her  duty  to  follow 
and  comfort  her  father.  She  still  remembered  our 
meetings  in  Florence,  and  has  —  " 

He  paused,  and  Umber,  after  a  puff  or  two,  finished 
the  sentence  : 

"  Crowned  your  Italian  adventures  with  happiness. 
You  are  more  fortunate  than  I  am.  I  met  in  Rome 
a  beautiful  flower  girl.  The  flower  girls  there  are  not 
often  beautiful,  so  she  was  the  more  remarkable.  Her 
gentleness  and  good  will  to  me  in  a  severe  sickness 
demanded  my  gratitude,  and  the  only  favor  she  asked 
was,  that  I  should  sketch  her  face  to  send  to  her  lover. 
That  of  course  put  an  end  to  the  possibility  of  romance 
on  my  part.  But  she  was  very  grateful,  and  was  still 
more  so,  some  months  later,  when  1  succeeded  in  get 
ting  her  lover,  who  was  a  *  patriot '  and  was  wounded, 
out  of  the  way  of  the  French  as  they  entered  the  city. 
She  would  have  suffered  much  to  serve  me.  But  the 
very  first  time  I  spoke  of  her  friendship  after  my 
return  hither,  I  disgusted  a  fair  lady,  and  have  painted 
more  clouds  than  sunshine  ever  since." 

Thus  we  enjoyed  our  cigars  by  the  bright  Cannel 


200  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

fire  in  Abel  Hard's  library.  For  our  part  we  had  no 
personal  adventures  to  relate,  so  we  told  of  Trifle  and 
Trifleton  House,  of  Stubs,  and  Pink,  and  u  corn-colored 
gloves."  Umber  and  we  were  about  to  depart,  not 
withstanding  a  bottle  of  Rhenish  .wine  invited  our 
stay,  when  a  servant  announced  that  a  poor  woman 
with  a  little  boy  desired  to  see  our  host.  We  passed 
out  into  the  dismal  night  and  Umber  went  home  in 
silence. 

Christmas  comes,  Trifle,  and  so  we  date  our  letter, 
for  even  the  anticipation  of  a  great  event  is  worthy  of 
record.  Yes,  Christmas  comes,  and  in  a  few  hours 
will  commence  the  glad  peals  from  church  and  cam 
panile,  —  the  deep-mouthed  clangor  and  the  sweet  sil 
very  chimes,  sounding  on  in  an  unbroken  circle  around 
the  world, —  proclaiming  the  return  of  the  holy  night 
when  the  shepherds  on  the  eastern  hills  saw  the  star 
that  stood  over  Bethlehem,  and  angels  sang,  "  On 
earth  peace,  and  good  will  towards  men."  From 
mighty  cathedral  and  from  humble  chapel  shall  swell 
the  songs  of  praise  and  the  solemn  mass.  In  hall 
and  cot  shall  be  happiness  and  love,  and  young  and  old 
shall  rejoice  in  the  festal  day  of  Christendom. 

."  A  merry  Christmas  "  at  Trifleton  House  ! 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  201 


XXIII. 


TRIFLETON  HOUSE, 
Christmas  week. 


•1 

HOME  again,  the  whole  bunch  of  us  !  A  great  many 
sympathizing  friends  in  the  great  city  (considerate 
souls)  have  said,  and  are  constantly  saying  to  me, 
"  You  must  find  it  rather  tough  at  Trifleton  House  in 
the  winter.  You'll  freeze  to  death.  You'll  die  with 
the  blues  !  "  But  we  have  been  home  a  week  or  two, 
and  I'm  afraid,  for  the  sake  of  those  who  regard  us 
with  such  tender  compassion,  that  we  shall  neither 
freeze  nor  pine. 

The  truth  is,  my  Editor,  we  think  tolerably  well  of 
Trifleton  House  —  it  seems  very  much  like  home  to  us, 
so  that  you  perceive,  in  that  point  of  view,  it's  not 
such  a  very  gloomy  place.  Still,  I  go  for  sympathy. 
It's  a  very  generous  trait,  and  when  I'm  condoled  with 
so  undeservedly,  I  always  say  to  myself,  "  Trifle,  my 
hearty,  never  find  fault  with  the  world  again ;  don't 
you  perceive  how  many  are  interested  in  your  wel 
fare  ! " 

My  own  idea  is,  though,  that  the  atmosphere  of 
Trifleton  House  is  such  as  to  warm  people  up,  —  even 
those  who  are  pretty  cold.  If  I  don't  find  any  colder 
people  elsewhere  than  I  do  there,  I  shall  be  disposed  to 


202  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

call  it  rather  a  mild  winter.  Prig  expresses  himself 
as  absolutely  pleased  at  getting  home.  He  says  he 
don't  think  he  shall  go  to  Boston  again  for  a  great 
while  ;  but  "  I'll  let  Grandpa  come  here,  and  see  me," 
he  considerately  added,  —  I  have  given  you  his  exact 
words.  He  inclines  to  the  opinion  that  his  White-y 
is  making  a  very  long  visit  away  from  Trifleton.  In 
fact,  it  slightly  puzzles  me,  where  he  has  gone.  He 
departed  in  good  health  and  spirits,  one  evening,  just 
before  we  all  left  for  town,  without  even  saying  "  good 
bye,"  and  he  hasn't  been  seen  since.  I  tell  Prig  I 
think  he's  gone  off  with  some  dog  or  cat,  perhaps,  to 
stay  —  all  the  time,  but  he  persists  in  the  assertion  that 
he's  "  on  a  visit,"  and  will  come  home  "  by  and  by." 

Oh,  human  faith ! 

That  "  by  and  by,"  how  many  tears  it  has  dried  up, 
how  many  yearnings  soothed,  how  many  drooping 
hearts  encouraged,  and  how  very  many  cheated  and 
disappointed!  Still,  let  us  not  quarrel  with  it,  my 
Editor.  It's  a  very  pretty  phrase.  Let  us  take  cour 
age  and  hasten  on.  We  shall  be  perfectly  happy  — 
"  by  and  by." 

What  I  wish  to  say  in  regard  to  sunrises,  sir,  is  this : 
When  we  were  on  our  visit  in  town  we  didn't  see  many, 
for  I  believe  they  are  not  very  beautiful  at  quarter  past 
eight  of  the  clock.  In  town  it's  a  mere  question  of 
night  and  day  with  one,  —  and  the  day  begins  in  the 
winter  season  somewhere  between  eight  and  nine.  To 
be  sure,  there  are  coffee  and  the  morning  papers,  which 
are  the  two  most  romantic  and  important  considera 
tions  which  ever  occurred  to  me  there  on  "  getting  up  ;  " 
but  at  Trifleton,  sir,  we  see  the  sun  rise  every  morning 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  203 

of  our  lives,  when  he  can  be  seen  anywhere,  that  is. 
On  several  occasions  I  have  seen  him  come  up  from 
the  sea,  and  merely  penetrate  the  line  of  dark,  gloomy, 
wintry,  slate-colored  clouds  upon  the  edge  of  the 
horizon  with  a  white  light,  and  then  advance  up  into 
the  clear  sky  without  a  semblance,  even,  of  crimson, 
golden,  or  pink,  being  perceptible,  but,  at  other  times, 
lately,  he  has  come  up  with  a  glory  I  have  never  seen 
surpassed,  if  equalled. 

This  morning  I  asked  Pat.  to  describe  the  colors  for 
me  ;  he  appeared  in  such  a  remarkable  manner.  "  How 
beautiful,  how  transcendently  beautiful,"  I  was  saying 
while  buttoning  one  of  my  suspenders,  (the  green  silk 
ones,  which  cost  me  two  dollars,  and  in  the  purchase 
of  which  I  got  shabbily  imposed  upon,  sir,)  Pat.  con 
curred  with  me  in  opinion,  in  spite  of  the  knot  she 
was  trying  to  unravel  in  the  strings  of  her —  night-cap 
—  I  was  actually  going  to  say,  if  I  hadn't  stopped  to 
think  how  extremely  improper  it  would  be  ;  and  she 
began  immediately  to  describe  the  colors.  Below  is 
her  description.  Before  buttoning  the  other  suspender, 
I  seized  my  pencil  and  took  it  down  from  her  lips. 

"First,  —  line  of  dark,  rich  purple  clouds;  next 
line  above,  golden  ;  next,  a  line  of  blue  ;  next,  a  line 
of  flaky,  pink  clouds." 

"  What  kind  of  pink,  Pat  ?  " 

"  Flaky,"  she  replied,  "  Flaky." 

"  What's  that  ?  " 

"  Why  Flaky  is, why  Flaky  means  —  Flaky, — 

what's  the  matter  with  this  string,  for  patience  sake  ?  " 
(with  a  twitch  at  it.) 

After  this  lucid  definition,  I  wrote  it  down  "  flaky," 
as  in  duty  bound. 


204  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

"Next,"  she  continued,  "  comes  a  long,  wide  space 
of  light  yellow;  and,  directly  above  this  space,  a  pile 
of  rich,  gorgeous,  crimson  clouds,  tinged  with  blue." 

"  And  the  sea,"  I  exclaimed,  "  how  magnificently 
it  looks!" 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  of  a  dark  purple  color,  with  the 
reflection  of  all  the  other  colors  I  have  mentioned 
blended  upon  it.  How  very  beautiful  !  " 

"  What's  beautiful  ?  1  want  to  see,"  and  out  came 
Prig  from  his  trundle  bed  into  the  dressing  room,  stag 
gering  and  tottering  in  his  flannel  night  drawers,  drawn 
up  and  tied  at  the  feet  "to  prevent  his  getting  cold," 
as  Pat.  says,  "  when  he  kicks  the  clothes  off." 

"  The  sun,  boy,  look  !  " 

He  clasped  his  hands  in  ecstasy,  and  said  he  liked 
"  all  beautiful  things."  At  this  juncture,  the  baby 
began  to  crow  in  concurrence,  and  thus,  sir,  you  have 
the  opinion  of  Trifle  and  his  whole  family  upon  the 
subject  of  that  sunrise.  I  wish  you  could  see  such  an 
one,  but,  as  "  the  years  of  a  man's  life,"  in  this  mun 
dane  condition,  are  only  "  threescore  years  and  ten," 
and  calculating  the  chances  of  your  being  "  up  "  in 
time  within  thirty  or  forty  years  to  come,  I  consider  it 
extremely  improbable  that  you  will. 

I  forgot  to  say  that  Pat.  upon  reflection,  concluded 
she  would  say  "  flaky  salmon  colored"  on  the  whole, 
rather  than  "  flaky  pink."  After  fishing  for  it  a  long 
time  she  said  that  that  was  just  the  word.  When  you 
consider,  sir,  that  this  description  was  taken  down  from 
the  lips  of  a  young  woman  with  white  teeth,  which 
teeth  were  employed  in  snapping  and  biting  at  that 
knot  in  that  — night  cap,  as  I  came  very  near  saying 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  205 

again  —  during  the  whole  time,  and  that  it  was  written 
by  a  man  of  the  extreme  dignity  of  character  of  Trifle, 
in  his  shirt  sleeves,  I  trust  you  will  regard  it  as  "  one  of 
the  sunrises  you  read  about,"  henceforth  and  forever. 
I  laughed  a  good  deal  while  I  was  taking  minutes,  and 
so  did  Prig,  but,  the  moment  I  buttoned  the  other  sus 
pender,  it  flashed  upon  me  that  I  had  compromised  my 
dignity  immeasurably,  and  as  I  looked  at  myself  in 
the  mirror,  while  tying  my  cravat,  I  practised  an  in 
dignant  frown  which  I  adopted  for  the  rest  of  the 
morning.  I  considered  it  due  to  myself  and  proper  for 
the  education  of  my  household  that  I  should  wear  it. 
If  you  continually  laugh  in  the  presence  of  women  and 
children,  they  take  advantage  of  you,  my  Editor. 
They  put  their  arms  round  your  neck,  and  sit  on  your 
knee,  and  pull  your  whiskers,  and  kiss  you,  and  all 
such  things.  Pat.  and  Prig,  and  even  the  baby  are 
extremely  addicted  to  this  sort  of  thing  with  me.  Did 
you  ever  hear  of  such  monstrous  familiarity  ?  They 
require  very  much  to  be  educated  on  this  point,  as 
you  perceive. 

But,  of  Pink  ! 

I  havn't  much  to  tell  you  in  regard  to  her,  for  I  have 
seen  very  little  of  her  since  our  return.  I  suspect  she 
is  slightly  offended  with  me,  but  I  think  without  cause. 
She  came  to  Trifleton  House  to  tea,  and  was  pouring 
forth  a  torrent  of  asseverations  about  it's  being  "  so 
lonely  "  in  our  absence. 

"  Lonely  !     Has  not  he  been  here  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  demurely. 

"  And  are  you  not  engaged  ?  "  I  continued. 

"  Yes,"  almost  snapped  she  in  reply. 


206  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

"  When  Pat.  and  I  were  engaged,"  I  stupidly  nar 
rated,  *'  whenever  we  were  most  lonely,  we  were  hap 
piest.  We  were  society  to  each  other,  and  when  any 
one  else  was  by,  the  cold  obtruding  world  seemed 
thrusting  itself  upon  us,  destroying  the  delicious  ro 
mance  and  sweet  poetry  of  our  natures.  When  alone, 
we  conjured  an  idea  of  heaven,  and  chiefly  then. 
Those  who  are  i  tenderly  attached,' "  I  added,  I'm 
afraid  somewhat  warmly,  "  like  to  be  alone," —  and  yet, 
why  afraid  ?  Affection  is  not  a  thing  to  be  ashamed 
of,  nor  are  its  habits  or  demonstrations.  It  carrieth  its 
own  reward.  It  refresheth  the  soul  that  is  full  of  it. 
Oh,  ye  who  love  Trifle,  and  whom  Trifle  loves,  he  is 
better  and  fitter  for  heaven  for  your  sake. 

She  waived  the  discussion,  and  began  to  ask  me 
about  Thackeray's  lectures.  Upon  a  purely  intellec 
tual  topic  she  can  always  fascinate  me,  and  I  forgot 
Aim,  corn-colored  gloves  and  all,  in  listening  to  her 
admirable  parallel  between  Thackeray  and  Dickens. 

While  she  talked,  I  drew  a  parallel  also  in  my  own 
mind  between  herself  and  Pat.  I  thought  of  her  sur 
passing  beauty,  her  clever  wit,  and  powerful  grasp  of 
intellect,  but  I  thought  how  far  higher,  and  purer,  and 
more  admirable,  because  more  womanly,  was  Pat.'s 
warm,  gushing,  affectionate  nature,  and  sincere,  gener 
ous  heart.  A  woman  without  a  heart  is  a  libel  upon 
her  sex. 

"  Poor  girl,"  said  Pat.  after  she  had  gone  home  that 
evening,  "  she  is  very  much  to  be  pitied."  I  ipquired 
anxiously  why,  but  I  was  not  enlightened.  It  seems 
she  and  Pat.  have  long  and'  mysterious  confabs 
almost  daily,  but  upon  what  subjects  is  quite  beyond 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  207 

me.  I  presume,  though,  that  the  number  of  brides 
maids  and  the  quality  and  cut  of  the  wedding  dress 
for  the  approaching  ceremony,  are  among  the  most 
important.  It  is  to  come  off  in  the  spring,  and  it  is 
clear  that  three 'or  four  months  are  quite  a  short  space 
of  time  for  the  discussion  of  these  momentous  ques 
tions.  Consider,  too,  what  an  undertaking  it  will  be  to 
"  go  to  housekeeping  "  in  the  Fifth  Avenue.  It  should 
be  expected,  doubtless,  that  a  woman  would  break 
somewhat  in  anticipating  such  a  thing.  I  give  you  the 
benefit  of  these  suggestions. 

Item.  —  I  was  passing  by  Goody  Green's  yesterday, 
and  she  called  me  in.  "  Mr.  Trifle,"  said  she,  "  what 
a  world  we  live  in.  I  hear  tell  that  good  Mr.  Stubs  is 
going  to  lose  all  of  his  property."  She  clasped  her 
bony  hands,  reminding  me  of  Goody  Blake  when  she 
prayed  in  the  snow.  But  not  as  Goody  Blake  prayed 
for  Harry  Gill  did  she  pray  for  Stubs.  She  raised  her 
eyes  to  heaven,  while  the  tears  poured  from  them  like 
rain,  and,  with  tremulous  accents,  murmured  "  may  he 
never  know  what  it  is  to  want.  May  he  be  rewarded 
for  all  his  kindness  to  the  poor  and  needy,  and  find  as 
faithful  friends  as  he  has  always  been  to  them  !  " 

"  I  have  faith  to  believe,"  she  continued,  turning 
again  to  me,  "  that  the  Lord  will  take  care  of  him." 
She  was  strangely  agitated,  but  grew  calmer  as  I  in 
formed  her,  as  well  as  I  could,  for  my  own  voice  began 
to  falter,  that  he  would  probably  in  no  event  ever  be 
come  destitute,  for  he  could  earn  his  living  even  if  he 
lost  his  property,  a  thought  which  seemed  not  to  have 
occurred  to  her.  I  asked  her  who  gave  her  her  infor 
mation. 


208  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

"  Why,  Miss  Pink,"  she  replied,  almost  gaily,  "  she 
han't  got  no  pride,  now.  She  comes  and  is  very  kind 
to  me,  just  as  Mr.  Stubs  was.  She  reads  the  Bible  for 
me,  just  as  he  did.  Sometimes  I  tell  her  the  chapters 
he  likes,  —  them  as  he  said  were  good  for  poor  lonely 
women,  whom  the  Lord  tempted  with  tribulations  in 
this  world,  or  some  such  hard  word,  to  try  their  faith. 
She  reads  'em,  but  I  don't  know  what  makes  her  turn 
her  face  away  from  me  so,  when  she  does;  and  then 
she  stops  so  often,  too.  When  she  picks  out  a  chapter 
herself,  she  reads  the  best ;  for  then  she  looks  right  at 
me,  and  reads  right  straight  along,  and  don't  mind  the 
periods  and  commas,  and  such  like.  I  like  her  better 
than  I  used  to,  and  I  told  her  so  the  other  day,  but  she 
said,  '  Dear  Goody,  lam  very  unworthy  of  affection.' 
Think  of  her  saying  dear  Goody.  Well,  it's  a  strange 
world.  I  told  her  1  supposed  she  felt  more  kind  like 
to  me,  'cause  she  was  so  happy  about  being  married 
to  such  a  fine  rich  man.  '  But,'  says  I,  '  Miss  Pink,' 
says  I,  '  I  always  thought  that  you  and  Mr.  Stubs  would 
be  married  to  each  other.  But  there's  a  Providence  in 
such  things,  and  I  'spose  it's  all  for  the  best,  tho'  he'll 
make  a  good  husband  for  somebody,  don't  you  think 
so?' 

"  '  Yes,  Goody,'  said  she,  '  he  will.' 

"  '  Well  then,'  I  was  going  on  to  say,  but  just  at  that 
moment  she  turned  very  pale,  and  began  to  shiver  all 
over,  so  I  did  not  talk  any  more,  but  told  her  she  must 
go  home  and  keep  house,  for  she  had  a  very  bad  cold. 
'Pears  to  me  she's  getting  very  delicate.  She  don't 
seem  so  strong  as  she  used  to.  She's  not  so  gay  as 
she  was,  nor  so  proud  neither.  God  is  dealing  with 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  209 

her,  for  she  sighs  very  deep  sometimes  when  she  reads 
the  Bible  to  me." 

She  is  human,  then,  and  has  a  heart,  after  all,  I 
thought  to  myself  once  more. 

I  trust  that  you  all  had  a  happy  Christmas.  Prig 
and  the  baby  hung  up  their  stockings,  which  produced 
from  Santa  04aus,  in  the  most  mysterious  manner,  all 
sorts  of  things  for  the  former,  and  a  nice,  beautiful 
silver  cup  for  the  latter. 

Kind,  considerate  Santa  Glaus. 


14 


210 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 


XXIV. 


THE  ARM  CHAIR, 
In  the  last  hours  of  '55. 

NOTWITHSTANDING  the  old  maxim,  which  you  may 
have  heard,  that  "  Ignorantia  (legis)  neminem  excusat" 
we  are  of  opinion  that  ignorance  must  be  an  excuse 
for  many  things,  even  for  some  of  the  sayings  of  the 
sapient  Trifle.  You  think  we  never  see  the  sun  rise  ! 
Having  escaped  from  the  brick  walls  which  imprisoned 
you  for  so  many  years  —  the  amiable  Pat.  must  not 
know  that  we  say  many  years  —  you  have  at  last  seen 
the  glories  of  sunrise,  and  you  imagine  they  have 
never  been  witnessed  by  any  one  else.  As  we  have 
been  familiarized  with  such  sights  from  the  cradle,  it  is 
a  little  too  absurd  that  you  should  tax  your  mathemat 
ics  by  a  calculation  of  the  probabilities  of  our  behold 
ing  this  daily  event. 

Yes,  sir,  we  do  see  the  sun  rise,  and  not  only  that, 
but  in  these  short  days  we  see  his  rising  on  other 
people  before  he  shines  on  us.  We  watch  the  shadow 
of  the  horizon  slowly  sinking  down  the  western  sky 
till  the  sunlight  crowns  the  distant  hill,  and  then  the  top 
of  the  church  spire.  It  creeps  down  the  hill  and  across 
the  plain,  brightens  the  exterior  of  dwellings  and  sends 
smiles  of  gladness  into  the  windows,  —  startling  many 
a  sleeper,  doubtless  —  and  tben  comes  slowly  on 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  211 

through  the  valley  towards  us.  When  it  reaches  the 
chimney  tops  of  our  nearest  neighbor  we  turn  to  see 
the  sun  itself  come  up  beyond  the  dark  cedars  that 
crown  the  hill  in  the  south-east,  in  splendor  perfect  to 
our  human  vision. 

But  the  '  splendor  of  a  life  time '  was  that  which 
met  the  eye  a  few  days  since,  when  the  sun's  rays 
were  broken  and  reflected  in  myriads  of  dazzling 
flashes  by  the  icy  robes  of  the  trees,  —  the  robes  all 
glittering  with  jewels  which  the  winter  had  cast  upon 
them  in  a  single  night,  as  if  to  rival  the  foliage  of 
summer.  Did  that  wondrous  spectacle  pass  unnoticed 
at  Trifleton  House  ?  —  that  glory  which  surpassed  the 
dreams  of  fairy  land  ?  —  that  shimmering  blaze  of  light, 
bursting  and  trembling  about  every  branch  of  every 
tree  ?  When  the  sun  came  up  with  the  ruddy  glow  of 
morning,  and  when  he  went  down  with  golden  drapery 
about  him,  was  Trifle  taking  down  from  the  lips  of 
Pat.  words  to  describe  the  shining  tints  that  leapt  and 
sparkled  over  the  whole  earth  ?  Make  a  note  of  it,  for 
but  few  such  sights,  so  intense  in  brightness  and 
beauty,  are  permitted  to  one  lifetime.  But  it  passes 
away,  like  all  the  beauties  of  earth, —  perchance  into 
infinite  and  everlasting  beauty,  as  time  passes  into 
eternity. 

Time  passes  !  Ay,  look  you,  1855  is  near  its  end 
—  will  have  passed  away  ere  we  shall  finish  this  wri 
ting.  The  sad  Old  Year  is  drawing  his  latest  breaths, 
and  the  happy  New  Year  comes  close  upon  his 
last  sigh.  The  New  Year  cometh  out  of  the  east,  un 
der  the  clear,  cold  starlight.  But  the  stars,  heedless  of 
him,  as  of  the  long  train  of  which  he  is  but  an  atom, 


212  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

roll  on  and  shine  the  same  as  on  that  morn  when  first 
they  sung  together.  Already,  in  other  lands,  has  he 
been  greeted  with  joyous  shouts  and  merry-makings, 
and  now  he  is  on  his  way  over  the  sea  whose  dark 
waves  roll,  forever  the  same  —  unmindful  of  the  de 
parture  of  the  Old  and  the  advent  of  the  New. 

The  New  Year  cometh  over  the  sea  —  nearer  and 
nearer.  The  Old  year  breathes  shorter  —  the  clock 
seems  to  tick  faster,  and  half  past  the  eleventh  hour 
has  already  struck.  Twelve  months  ago  and  this  Old 
Year  was  young,  and  fresh,  and  full  of  promise, — 
bringing  joys,  and  hopes,  and  high  purposes.  He 
passed  on  through  the  seasons  in  his  allotted  course, 
and  now  he  lies  at  the  end  of  it.  Ah  !  he  has  brought 
many  sorrows  as  well  as  joys,  —  sorrows  to  those  who 
least  expected  it.  But  for  sorrows  or  joys  he  is  alike 
almost  forgotten  now,  for  the  many  sleep  unmindful 
of  his  departure,  and  those  who  wake  are  watching  to 
hail  the  new  king  that  comes  so  quickly.  But  let  us 
reverently  watch  his  end,  recounting  his  benefits  and 
remembering  the  lessons  he  has  taught  us. 

How  we  have  wronged  the  poor  Old  Year! — When 
he  has  offered  us  precious  gifts  that  might  have  added 
to  our  treasure  —  not  gold  and  silver  ;  few  indeed  neg 
lect  to  acquire  that  if  they  can  —  we  have  refused  the 
feoon.  VVe  have  turned  us  coldly  away  from  golden 
opportunities  which  he  brought,  and  wasted  the  hours 
which  were  his  life  blood.  He  led  us  by  the  door  of 
the  afflicted,  —  the  hungry  and  the  naked,  yet  we 
clothed  and  fed  them  not,  —  the  broken  hearted,  but 
we  comforted  them  not,  —  the  erring,  yet  we  guided 
them  not  homeward.  He  brought  us  sage  counsels 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  213 

from  his  fathers,  and  pointed  us  to  bright  examples  of 
steadfast  virtue  and  earnest  purpose,  too  often  in  vain. 
And  now,  'tis  too  late.  He  has  no  more  gifts  to  offer 
us  —  only  a  brief  retrospection  ;  he  has  lavished  all 
upon  us,  and  now,  poor  and  weak,  he  is  about  to  depart 
forever.  In  vain  we  suffer  regret  now,  in  vain  we  im 
plore  forgiveness,  for  he  grows  not  young  again,  and 
what  he  was  none  other  shall  be  forever 

The  New  Year  cometh  over  the  sea  —  yet  nearer. 
The  Old  Year  breathes  fainter.  The  third  quarter 
past  eleven  has  been  chimed,  and  the  minutes  —  the 
moments  —  assume  an  individuality  and  importance  as 
they  pass  by  now.  Crowded  into  each  are  the  ghosts 
of  things  past  —  shadows  which  appear  for  the  last 
time,  and  shadows  that,  haply,  on  such  a  night,  again 
may  come  knocking  at  the  heart's  door.  The  long 
train  floats  by  to  the  quick  measure  of  the  fast  swing 
ing  pendulum,  and  in  vain  the  soul  cries  "  stay  !  " 
The  hands  on  the  dial  are  near  together,  and  we  count 
the  minutes  — almost  the  seconds  —  downward  to  noth 
ing.  Ten,  nine,  eight,  —  how  short  the  time  for  re 
grets,  and  penitence,  and  resolutions.  And  so  the  Old 
Year  departs  in  silence. 

The  New  Year  cometh  over  the  sea  in  silence  — 
stealing  nearer  and  nearer.  Hark,  the  bells  chime  — 
and  to  their  music  the  Old  Year  passes,  floating  away 
like  those  wild  sounds  into  the  great  formless  gulf  of 
the  past.  The  music  of  the  bells  dies  away,  and  now 
the  clock  strikes  one,  two  —  on,  on,  to  twelve.  The 
Old  Year  has  gone  forever,  and  the  New  Year  has 
come  over  the  sea. 


214  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

"  Ring  out  wild  bells  to  the  wild  sky, 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light; 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night; 
Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new, 
Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow  j 
The  year  is  going,  let  him  go  ; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease, 
Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold  ; 
Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 

Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 
The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand  ; 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land, 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be." 

A  "  Happy  New  Year  "  to  the  dwellers  in  Trifleton 
House. 

Among  the  new  books  to  charm  away  the  dulness 
of  the  hours  at  Trifleton  House  —  don't  deny  that  there 
are  such — pray  you  read  Robert  Browning's  new  vol 
ume  of  poems,  "  Men  and  Women,"  and  Hillard's 
selections  from  the  writings  of  Walter  Savage  Landor. 
Perhaps  you  may  be  familiar  with  the  works  of  Lan 
dor.  But  if  you  are,  you  will  find  in  the  volume  we 
speak  of  a  most  admirable  selection  of  fine  things,  and 
true  things,  and  pointed  things,  here  brought  together  in 
most  convenient  form, — just  such  extracts,  for  the 
most  part,  as  you  would  yourself  like  to  make  ;  and  if 
you  are  not  on  intimate  terms  with  Landor,  through  his 
books,  you  will  find  these  extracts  just  so  many  grace 
ful  invitations  to  open  the  entire  works  of  the  author. 


TR1FLETON    PAPERS.  215 

In  looking  through  these  leaves  you  cannot  but  ask 
"  from  what  other  author,  of  the  present  day,  could  so 
many  gems  and  brilliants  be  collected  ?  " 

In  "  Men  and  Women  "  you  will  find  some  of  the 
poet's  best  music.  Browning  writes  not  so  much  for 
the  multitude  as  for  the  few  who  love  true  poetry,  and 
for  the  future.  He  has  looked  deeply  into  the  human 
heart,  and  writes  with  a  passionate  vigor  the  most 
subtile  thought,  and  of  the  most  delicate  emotions. 
Sometimes,  perhaps,  his  words  seem  a  little  mystic  or 
his  thought  obscure,  but  even  then  we  feel  the  poetry, 
and  everywhere  there  shines  through  his  chosen  w.ords 
a  luminous  beauty,  which  is  like  the  bright  soul  animat 
ing  a  lovely  form.  Reading  such  books  you  shall  forget 
to  wear  even  the  "  practised  frown,"  and  though  you 
thereby  do  not  educate  your  family  to  less  familiarity, 
you  may  yourself  learn  to  tolerate  and  pardon  their 
endearments,  and  the  result  will  be  the  same,  —  in  the 
country,  that  is,  where  "-deportment "  is  of  less  conse 
quence  than  it  is  in  town. 

Perhaps  you  are  not  aware  that  Mrs.  Trifle,  in  pencil 
marks  on  your  last  letter,  inquired  for  news  about  the 
Hards.  Or  was  it  a  device  of  your  own,  to  cover  your 
curiosity  ?  Now  permit  us  to  intimate,  very  gently, 
that  we  have  no  gossips  about  the  arm  chair,  and  we 
are  not  familiar  with  all  the  sayings  and  doings  of  our 
neighbors,  even,  and  the  Hards  are  not  very  near 
neighbors.  Occasionally  we  by  chance  hear  of  some 
thing,  or  see  something  —  but  it  is  altogether  casual. 
From  tea  drinking  old  maids  we  keep  aloof,  and  as  for 
stories  which  are  bandied  about  from  kitchen  to  kitchen, 
we  give  no  heed  to  them. 


216  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

Did  we  not  say  that  when  Umber  and  we  left  Abel 
Hard,  a  woman  and  a  little  boy  were  announced  ? 
Well,  that  was  true  enough,  and  it  seems  that  the  boy 
was  Abel's  young  duck,  whom  he  picked  out  of  the 
sea  at  Newport,  and  the  woman  was  his  mother.  Lily 
having  learned  from  Abel  that  Dawson — so  they  call 
her  —  was  a  widow  at  Newport,  had  written  to  her  to 
come  to  their  new  home.  Dawson  was  glad  enough 
to  go  to  the  young  lady  whom  she  had  found  so 
gentle  a  mistress,  but  ignorant  and  inexperienced  in 
travelling  she  had  by  some  means  found  her  way  to 
AbeJ  Hard,  whom  she  looks  upon  as  a  benefactor  and 
friend,  trusting  that  he  would  send  her  safely  through. 
He  was  glad  enough  to  serve  Lily,  and  commended 
Dawson's  prudence  for  coming  to  him. 

"  But  the  young  lady  writes  down-hearted,  sir  — 
one  of  the  neighbors  read  me  the  letter.  She  feels 
lonesome,  sir,  and  says  as  how  she  doesn't  feel  as  if 
she  should  live  long,  and  it  would  kind  o'  be  a  comfort 
to  her  to  have  an  old  servant  like  me  with  her  now." 

So  Abel  told  Umber  that  Dawson  spoke,  and  what 
an  icy  dread  stole  over  him  as  he  heard  her.  And  the 
dread  has  not  departed,  but  seems  to  have  gathered 
new  gloom  about  his  heart  and  hopes.  He  is  darker 
than  ever.  He  sent  Dawson  forward  as  soon  as  pos 
sible,  making  her  the  bearer  of  missives,  of  course. 
But  the  boy,  Dicky  Dawson,  was  not  able  to  proceed, 
having  the  symptoms  of  serious  illness  about  him. 
Dawson  objected  to  leaving  him,  but  Abel  would 
listen  neither  to  her  delay  or  his  departure.  The  boy 
was  his  protege,  he  said,  and  he  would  take  care  of 
him,  better  than  she  could.  So  with  many  tears  on 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  217 

the  part  of  the  mother  and  boy,  she  was  finally  per 
suaded  to  go.  But  the  day  she  departed,  Dicky  was 
put  to  bed  in  a  fever,  and  the  doctor  called.  Abel  had 
him  placed  in  his  own  room,  and  has  watched  him  with 
a  care  which  seems  to  owe  something  to  his  love  for 
Lily,  and  the  circumstances  by  which  the  boy  is  asso 
ciated  with  her.  He  finds  relief  from  his  anxiety  for 
her,  even  while  he  nourishes  it,  in  nursing  this  poor 
sick  boy.  Haply  he  shall  find  something  better. 


218  TRIFLETON    PAVERS. 


XXV. 


TRIFLETOX  HOUSE, 
Sunday,  in  the  new  year  of  '56. 

IN  all  this  correspondence,  I  have  written  you  no 
word  on  Sunday,  though  I  have  often  thought  of  you 
on  that  day. 

But  this  Sunday  has  been  a  remarkable  one,  and,  at 
this  present  writing,  Trifieton  House  is  completely 
buried  up  in  snow.  Huge  drifts  lie  scattered  all 
around,  I  don't  know  how  many  feet  deep,  and  if 
we  were  to  see  you  a  stone's  throw  off,  and  were  to 
beckon  you  to  come  in,  you  would  find  it  quite  impos 
sible,  by  wading  even,  to  reach  our  door.  No  paths 
are  broken,  and  everywhere,  as  far  as  the  eye  can 
reach,  extend  largest  fields  of  snow. 

I  have  seen  nothing  like  it  since  I  was  a  boy.  It 
has  indeed  been  one  of  the  "  old-fashioned  snow 
storms."  We  have  been  in-doors  all  day  long, 
watching  the  progress  of  the  storm,  and  listening  to 
the  voices  of  the  wind,  and  to  those  other  "  still 
small  voices  "  that  speak  to  our  souls  in  such  a  day 
as  this. 

It  is  the  Lord's  day,  and  He  has  shown  us  His 
power  and  majesty.  "  The  heavens  declare  the 
glory  of  God,"  and  "  He  hangeth  the  earth  upon 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  219 

nothing."  Moreover,  "  He  saith  to  the  snow,  be 
thou  on  the  earth,"  and,  as  He  spoke  to  Job,  so  He 
speaks  to  us,  "  out  of  the  whirlwind,"  saying  to  each 
one  of  us,  "  hast  thou  entered  into  the  treasures  of 
the  snow  ?  "  —  and  "  the  hoary  frost  of  heaven  who 
hath  gendered  it  ?  " 

But  as  the  day  has  drawn  to  its  close,  the  fury  of 
the  storm  has  subsided,  and  the  evening  is  still,  calm, 
and  beautiful  !  I  remembered  just  such  another  Sun 
day,  and  just  such  another  storm,  and  looked  over 
my  old  manuscripts  to  find  some  lines  I  wrote  in 
commemoration  of  it.  I  give  them  to  you  in  ipsissimis 
verbis. 

The  weary  sun  has  well  nigh  reached  his  home  ! 
His  course  to-day  has  been  a  gloomy  one. 
Dull,  leaden  clouds  have  girt  his  chariot  round, 
The  azure  track  obscuring,  while  the  winds, 
Urged  on  impetuous  by  the  winter  king, 
The  bonds  unloosed  that  fettered  them  awhile, 
Have,  mad  with  license,  waged  incessant  war, 
Their  shrill  voice  echoing  athwart  the  sky, 
Rising  above  the  tempest,  like  the  moan 
Of  wounded  men  amid  the  battle's  din. 
But,  with  the  close  of  day,  the  storm  subsides  ; 
Twilight's  soft  hand  smooths  down  its  ruffled  wings, 
And  opes  the  gate  of  evening,  whence  proceeds 
The  sweet,  soft  harmony  of  heaven's  stars. 
This  day  a  lesson  teaches,  oh  my  soul ! 
While  all  was  gloom  around,  the  sun's  career 
Was  nobler  none  the  less,  although  obscured. 
He  stayed  not  in  his  purpose  for  the  storm, 
Nor,  for  a  moment,  wandered  from  his  course. 
So,  thou,  in  passing  down  the  vale  of  life, 
Press  ever  on,  pure  fa  temptation's  spite, 
Breasting  the  storms  of  sorrow  and  distress, 


220  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

True  to  thyself,  and  trusting  that  the  hand 
Of  Christ,  who  died  for  all,  shall,  at  the  last, 
Open  the  gate  of  paradise  to  thee. 

I  find  these  lines  under  date  of  Sunday  evening, 
Feb.  15th,  1846  —  almost  ten  years  ago;  and  they 
would  have  slumbered  quietly  ten  years  more,  in 
manuscript,  if  the  day  just  passed,  and  the  thoughts 
occasioned  by  it,  had  not  called  them  forth  to  light. 
Pat.,  who,  it  seems,  pores  over  such  things  of  mine, 
says  she  has  read  them  often  before,  but  that  "  they 
never  seemed  so  real  and  genuine  as  this  evening." 
You  are  therefore  indebted  to  her  for  them,  entirely, 
my  Editor. 

Ten  years  ago  I  was  somewhat  addicted  to  writing 
verses,  but  I  seldom  write  anything  of  the  sort  now. 
Good,  plain,  substantial  prose  is  best  for  all  such  in 
different  writers  as  Trifle.  Genuine  poetry,  it  is  true, 
is  always  admirable  ;  but  how  little  of  that  does  the 
world  see,  or  has  it  ever  seen. 

Ten  years  gone,  and  another  year  just  entered  upon ! 
Well,  let  them  pass,  my  friend.  We  have  nothing 
to  do  with  their  lapse,  except  to  gain  experience  and 
wisdom,  and  to  keep  instead  of  breaking,  constantly, 
the  good  resolutions  we  are  so  apt,  all  of  us,  in  making. 
Let  us  live  for  the  happiness  of  others,  and  we  shall 
thus  be  happy  ourselves  —  here,  and  we  can  keep  a 
pretty  clear  look  out  for  that  hereafter  which  will  call 
into  requisition  all  our  capacities  for  enjoyment.  Let 
us  travel  on.  What  matter  for  the  years. 

I  have  read  nothing  to-day  of  any  consequence, 
but  have  thought  much  upon  my  past,  present,  and 
future.  Books  and  sermons  do  not  constitute  every- 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  221 

thing.  Each  man  should  study,  and  know  himself. 
He  may  find  more  agreeable  subjects  for  study,  but  he 
can  certainly  find  none  more  important.  Look  your 
self  boldly  in  the  face,  my  Editor.  Don't  shrink  !  — 
How  do  you  find  yourself —  a  little  selfish,  proud,  dis 
contented,  disposed  to  murmur,  &c.,  &c.  ?  —  Well,  I 
know  several  others  troubled  in  the  same  way.  It's 
quite  human,  but  it  will  never  do,  sir !  —  There's  a 
cure  arid  a  balm  for  it.  We  can  all  become,  if  we 
will,  more  pure,  gentle,  affectionate,  childlike,  chari 
table.  We  are  starting  on  a  new  year,  and  let  us, 
therefore,  try. 

Monday,  P.  M. 

The  roads  are  so  blocked  with  snow  that  all  trav 
elling  is  practically  interdicted.  Hence  I  have  not 
travelled  to  town  to-day.  I  have,  rather,  been  tak 
ing  a  general  survey  of  things  here  at  Trifleton 
House.  I  have  procured  a  small  boy  to  dig  us  out 
of  the  drifts,  and  Trifleton  House  can  now  be  ap 
proximated. 

How  different  it  seems  from  last  summer.  Then 
we  had  birds  and  flowers  in  the  garden,  and  friends  in 
the  house ;  but  now  the  garden  is  buried  in  a  frigid 
shroud,  and  our  friends  are  far  away.  Be  it  so.  We 
should  be  independent  of  friends.  We  should  find 
resources  in  ourselves,  and  we  do.  I  speak  the  truth 
when  I  tell  you  that  I  feel  absolutely  merry  to-day  at 
Trifleton  House.  The  shadows  of  last  summer,  it  is 
true,  are  somewhat  about  me,  but  what  then  ?  That 
summer  is  fled,  and  my  Hail  is  for  the  Future.  I 
care  not  for  the  Past.  Have  we  hopes,  expectations, 
friends  ?  Let  them  appear  in  the  Future,  and  prove 


222  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

themselves  real.  I  care  not  for  the  Past.  It  is  gone, 
with  its  joys  and  its  sorrows.  Cling  to  it,  you  who 
sentimentalize.  Good-bye  to  it,  say  I.  It  has  become 
a  ghost  and  a  shadow.  There  is  what  is  real  —  there 
is  work  in  the  Future.  Better  brood  no  longer,  ye 
dreamers,  but  awake,  shake  off  your  sloth  and  work, 
and,  when  you  work,  look  to  it  that  you  work  in  the 
right  direction  !  Care  not  too  much  for  gold,  for  it 
will  disappoint  you.  Nor  for  fame,  for  it  will  cheat 
you.  Nor  for  what  you  call  happiness,  for  it  will 
slip  from  your  grasp.  Ascertain  your  duty,  and  dis 
charge  it ! 

Another  most  remarkable  feature  about  yesterday 
and  to-day,  in  addition  to  the  snow,  has  been  my  being 
allowed  to  taste  the  tomatoes  which  Pat.  put  up  for  the 
winter ;  and  entre  nous,  though  it  is  by  no  means  to 
be  told  in  Gath,  or  to  be  published  anywhere,  I  con 
sider  them  an  open  question.  Pat.  says  she  don't  think 
they've  any  too  much  salt ;  but  that  she  "  put  in  con 
siderable  to  make  them  keep  ; "  and  that  I  would  bet 
ter  not  mention  it  anywhere.  So  don't  publish  this 
part  of  my  letter  —  I  beg  you  not  to.  She  says  I'm 
no  judge  of  tomatoes.  I  am  not.  The  longer  I  live 
the  more  I  am  persuaded  that  I  am  rather  fresh. 

The  quinces  are  a  triumph,  as  are  likewise  your 
grapes.  I'm  much  obliged  to  you  for  them.  Editors, 
though,  ought  not  to  expect  grapes. 

I  send  you  an  extract  from  Stub's  last  letter : 

"  Our  case  has  been  reached  and  argued,  and  I  feel 
satisfied  that  we  have  made  all  we  can  of  it  and  brought 
out  its  whole  strength.  We  stand  now  fairly  before 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  223 

the  Court,  and  I  shall  remain  here  until  the  opinion  is 
given.  I  cannot  speak  in  too  high  terms  of  the  ability 
displayed  by  my  associate  counsel,  and  by  the  gentle 
men  on  the  other  side  also.  A  pure  legal  argument, 
pointed  and  vigorous,  adorned  by  little  rhetoric  and 
weakened  by  less  illustration,  but  marked  by  a  severe 
simplicity,  and  pronounced  in  chaste  and  nervous 
English,  and  supported  by  principles  and  authorities, 
in  such  a  manner  as  to  enchain  the  interest  and  com 
mand  the  attention  of  the  Court,  is  a  lawyer's  test  and 
triumph. 

"  I  was  quite  aware  of  .all  this  when  I  ventured  upon 
my  opening.  I  trembled,  at  first,  at  the  sound  of.  my 
own  voice,  for  I  had  for  auditors  men  of  ripe  experi 
ence  and  mature  judgment,  while  I  myself  was  simply 
in  my  novitiate,  and  was,  as  it  were,  essaying  an  ex 
periment.  Slill  1  knew  by  whom  I  was  to  be  followed 
and  sustained.  This  thought  encouraged  me  ;  but,  as 
I  proceeded,  I  saw  that  the  Court  were  honoring  me 
with  their  attention,  and  their  calm  and  dignified  bear 
ing  and  gentleman-like  consideration  for  what  even  I 
might  have  to  present,  inspired  me  with  a  self-reliance 
such  as  I  have  seldom  felt,  and  I  spoke  steadily  on  for 
an  hour  or  two  without  further  embarrassment,  until  I 
had  quite  gone  through  our  brief,  and  discussed  the 
several  points  contained  in  it. 

"  The  kindness  of  the  Court,  of  whose  whole  de 
meanor,  in  fact,  I  can  never  speak  in  terms  of  sufficient 
admiration,  and  the  invaluable  method  and  arrange 
ment  of  my  associate  counsel,  in  the  preparation  of 
our  brief,  were 'the  chief  causes  of  my  managing  to 
push  along  as  well  as  I  did.  I  do  not  regard,  then,  my 


224  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

effort  as  entirely  a  failure  ;  but  I  would  not  have  spoken 
of  it  as  freely  as  I  have,  except  to  gratify  what  I  be 
lieve  to  be  more  than  an  idle  curiosity  on  your  part. 
I  know  that  you  are  interested  in  all  that  I  do. 

"  What  the  result  shall  be  is  of  small  moment  to 
me,  so  far  as  it  will  affect  my  property,  as  I  have 
said  before.  I  care  nothing  for  money  or  station,  if  I 
can  but  educate  myself  and  benefit  my  kind,  as  I  pass 
through  life.  I  have  nothing  else  to  live  for,  my  dear 
friend.  For  what  the  world  calls  happiness  I  do  not 
look.  The  Jlush  of  my  youth  has  passed,  and  my 
enthusiasm  has  become  merged  in  experience  and  dis 
cipline.  My  hope  has  changed  its  name  to  disappoint 
ment,  and  my  fine  resolutions  to  work  and  accomplish, 
are  fast  fading  away.  I  am  growing  inert  and  slug 
gish,  for  what  have  I  to  strive  after  ?  Who  cares  for 
me  ?  I  invest  things  and  persons  with  virtues  they 
never  had,  and  the  bitter  reaction  which  follows  the 
discovery  of  my  mistake,  makes  me  hate  everybody. 
I  am  far  from  happy,  and  the  amount  of  confidence  I 
once  reposed  in  a  single  woman,  who  has  proved  un 
worthy  of  it,  I  can  only  reflect  upon  with  a  shudder. 
It  is  unphilosophical  and  weak,  I  know,  but  I  will 
never  trust  another  woman.  Whether  it  be  true  or 
false  that  one  illustrate  all,  I  know  not  and  I  care  not. 
I  wash  my  hands  of  the  entire  sex  forever.  Let  them 
be  content  with  their  trinkets  and  their  gossip  ;  their 
small  jealousies  and  frivolities  ;  and  their  hot  desires 
for  admiration  and  flattery.  I  will  not  interfere  with 
them  or  trouble  them." 

Another  extract  from  his  letter,  in  a  different  vein, 
is  as  follows : 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  225 

"  I  have  been  reading  Browning.  We  must  assuredly 
talk  him  over,  when  I  return,  for  the  man  is  a  marvel 
of  his  kind.  Just  hear  him  talk  of  '  Evelyn  Hope,' 
who  is  dead : 

1  Her  life  had'  many  a  hope  and  aim  — 
Duties  enough  and  little  cares, 
And  now  was  quiet  and  now  astir  — 
Till  God's  hand  beckoned  unawares, 
And  the  sweet  white  brow  is  all  of  her.' 

"  And  again,  are  you  not  startled  at  the  irresistible 
appeal  to  the  human  passion  in  your  composition,  in 
the  interrogatory  in  '  A  Lover's  Quarrel,'  of 

*  Woman,  and  will  you  cast 
For  a  word,  quite  off  at  last, 
Me,  your  own,  your  you.  — 
Since,  as  truth  is  true, 
I  was  you  all  the  happy  past  — 
Me  do  you  leave  aghast 
With  the  memories  we  amassed  ?  ' 

"  The  italicising  is  mine. 

"  What  the  following  is  I  cannot  tell,  whether  it  be 
passion  or  poetry,  or  all  soul.  It  is  either  intensely 
human  or  intensely  not  human  —  that  is,  something 
higher.  Which  ? 

'  I  would  I  could  adopt  your  will, 
See  with  your  eyes,  and  set  my  heart 
Beating  by  yours,  and  drink  my  fill, 
At  your  soul's  springs  — your  part,  my  part 
In  life,  for  good  or  ill.' 

"  Here,  too,  the  italics  are  mine,  as  also  in  this,  so 
full  of  meaning  and  feeling  ; 
15 


226  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

'  Just  when  I  seemed  about  to  learn  ! 
"Where  is  the  thread  now  ?     OiF  again  ? 
The  old  trick  !     Only  1  discern 
Infinite  passion  and  the  pain 
Of  finite  hearts  that  yearn.''  " 

We  shall  assuredly  have  to  examine  Browning  a  lit 
tle,  my  Editor.  It  may  be  Stubs  is  somewhat  too  warm 
in  regard  to  him.  But  don't  you  think  the  kind  of 
selections  he  has  given  us  a  little  remarkable  —  old 
married  folks  like  us,  —  and  besides,  how  are  they 
consistent  with  other  parts  of  his  letter  ? 

I  have  seen  nothing  of  Pink  since  my  last.  I  occa 
sionally  ask  Pat.  about  her :  but  quite  all  the  informa 
tion  I  get  is,  "  Poor  girl !  —  Poor  child  !  "  What  this 
means  is  quite  beyond  me. 


TRIFLETON   PAPERS.  227 


XXVI. 


THE  ARM  CHAIR, 
In  the  time  of  snow-banks. 

WE  have  no  doubt,  most  sweet-mouthed  Trifle,  that 
those  grapes  of  which  you  speak  with  so  much  self- 
gratulation  —  our  grapes  you  very  provokingly  call 
them  —  are  excessively  sour,  even  as  your  tomatoes 
are  confessedly  salt.  We  have  no  desire  for  your 
grapes.  We  have  never  believed  in  their  good  qualities 
since  you  told  us  how  we  were  cheated  —  there's  no 
use  in  being  mealy-mouthed  —  absolutely  cheated  out 
of  them,  by  your  wife's  great  desire  to  gratify  your 
inordinate  love  of  "  preserves."  It  is  very  refreshing 
to  think  how  disappointed  you  must  have  been,  when 
you  found  they  were  sour  grapes,  after  all.  You  are 
rairly  punished  for  some  of  your  sins  by  this  infliction 
on  your  fastidious  palate. 

It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  talk  so  grandly  about 
not  caring  for  the  summer,  with  its  birds,  and  flowers, 
and  friends.  But  of  what  value  are  words  when  your 
acts  tell  a  different  story  ?  Shut  up  by  snow-drifts,  — 
to  deliver  you  from  which  you  call  in  the  aid  of  a 
small  boy,  instead  of  attacking  them  with  a  vigorous 
arm  yourself — you  uncork  your  tomatoes,  and  plunge 


228  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

into  your  grapes,  the  only  mementoes  you  have  of  the 
summer,  and  thus  attempt  to  bring  back  the  season 
which  you  profess  to  care  nothing  about.  Do  you 
succeed  ?  Do  the  snow-drifts  vanish  with  the  taste  of 
salt  tomatoes?  or  are  icy  trees  clothed  with  foliage  as 
you  rejoice  in  sour  grapes  ? 

That  snow-storm  was  worthy  of  your  notice,  and 
certainly  the  deep  drifts  are  not  to  be  passed  by  with 
out  observation.  Ay,  is  it  not  a  glorious  sight,  the 
whole  earth  clad  in  such  a  spotless  robe,  covering  its 
dark  places,  its  unsightly  pools,  its  more  hideous  fea 
tures,  as  well  as  all  its  beauties,  with  purity  ?  O  for 
some  moral  storm  thus  to  spread  an  unstained  mantle 
over  the  dark  places  of  misery,  the  foul  pools  of  vice, 
the  deformities  of  sin  ! 

There  are  days  of  dazzling  splendor  in  these  seasons 
of  snow  ;  days  whose  brilliancy,  and  still,  clear,  invig 
orating  air,  more  than  compensate  for  the  absence  of 
the  varied  beauty  of  summer.  The  white  snow  every 
where,  shining  in  the  sun  and  blue  in  the  shadow, 
with  here  and  there  a  group  of  evergreens  or  the  gray 
trunks  and  branches  of  the  thick  woods  to  relieve  the 
eye,  and  over  all  the  azure  of  the  pure  atmosphere, — 
cannot  such  a  scene  reconcile  us  to  the  rigors  of  our 
northern  winter  ?  The  silence  that  seems  to  hang 
upon  the  still  air  is  broken  only  by  the  crackling  of 
dead  branches  in  the  woods,  or  the  caw  of  the  crow 
who  flaps  his  lazy  wings  over  the  high  trees,  or  a 
cheerful  voice  whose  tones  come  up  from  the  valley 
like  music,  or  the  distant  tinkle  of  merry  sleigh-bells, 
or  the  echoes  which  catch  up  all  these  sounds  and 
repeat  them  softly. 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  229 

So  are  there  nights,  with ,  these  midwinter  snows, 
surpassingly  beautiful,  —  yet  of  a  kind  of  desolate 
beauty,  which  chills  while  it  charms.  The  sense 
of  solitude  which  comes  over  one  where  the  snow 
stretches  on  every  side,  over  hill  and  valley,  white  and 
shining  in  the  moonlight  in  strong  contrast  with  the 
dark  sky,  and  there  is  no  sign  of  human  life,  is 
really  oppressive.  Under  no  other  circumstances  — 
we  have  not  been  a  Crusoe,  nor  at  sea  in  an  open 
boat,  nor  a  solitary  at  the  source  of  the  Nile,  nor  in 
the  great  desert  —  have  we  felt  so  utterly  alone,  as  in 
such  a  midwinter  scene,  at  night.  The  sense  of  beauty 
is  touched  by  the  soft  light,  the  striking  contrasts  and 
the  charm  of  mystery  which  hangs  over  the  landscape  ; 
but  gradually  awakens  the  sense  of  desolation  and 
loneliness,  as  we  look  over  the  white  plain,  and  hill, 
and  valley,  all  cold,  still  and  lifeless,  as  we  hear  no 
sound  and  see  no  living  being,  and  feel  that  we  stand 
alone  above  the  dead  earth,  and  in  the  immeasurable 
space  above  us  worlds  inaccessible. 

We  have  been  in  this  situation  a  few  times,  and  ex 
perienced  more  than  we  dare  —  more  than  we  can 
express.  You  have  confessed  to  having  essayed  poetry 
in  years  gone  by.  Time  was  when  we  were  guilty 
of  the  same  folly,  and  your  lines  recalled  to  our  mem 
ory  some  which  we  wrote  more  than  u  ten  years  " 
ago,  suggested  by  an  experience  of  such  a  "  Winter's 
Night  scene."  We  give  you  a  part  of  them. 

Night  on  the  frozen  earth,  —  night  on  the  snow,  — 
Night  in  the  dark  blue  sky,  where  the  young  moon, 
Trailing  her  silver  garments  down  the  west, 
Leaveth  the  infinite  depth  clotted  with  light, 


230  TEIFLETON    PAPERS. 

As  stars,  like  messengers  from  God,  come  forth. 
Stillness  and  Night ;  no  restless  wind  astir 
Shakes  the  soft  mantle  of  the  bending  boughs, 
Or  sighs  or  wails  in  sorrow  unrelenting  ; 
No  voice  nor  music,  chime  nor  echo  breaks 
The  solemn  hush,  the  deep,  oppressive  silence  ; 
Over  the  pure  white  snow  that  lies,  a  pall, 
On  forms  of  beauty  sleeping  now  in  death, 
There  moves  no  life  the  solitude  to  waken. 
The  chill  heart  hears  its  own  dull  throbbings  only, 
And  sinks  in  trembling,  shivering  dread  before 
This  awful  silence,  solitude  and  death. 

This  solitude  and  death  !    Oh,  shuddering  soul, 
Look  up  !  —  up  from  this  frozen,  desolate  earth, 
Its  cold,  pale,  sculptured  beauty,  silence  bound, 
Into  the  fathomless  infinite  above, 
"Where  the  stars  shine  in  ever-living  light, 
And  chant,  in  full-toned  heavenly  harmony, 
God's  glory  evermore. 

We  commended  to  your  attention,  in  our  last, 
Browning's  new  volume,  and  it  seems  that  Stubs  has 
done  likewise.  The  recent  death  of  Rogers,  the  veteran 
poet  who  has  so  long  lingered  on  life's  stage,  a  repre 
sentative  of  the  past,  suggests  a  comparison  — rather 
a  contrast  —  between  these  poets  of  different  times 
and  different  schools.  We  do  not  propose  to  follow 
out  the  suggestion,  but  leave  it  for  your  own  amuse 
ment.  Perspicuity  and  taste  are  the  characteristics  of 
the  author  of  the  "  Pleasures  of  Memory ;  "  and  his 
lines  present  a  strong  contrast  to  the  frequent  vagueness 
and  obscurity  of  those  of  Browning.  In  poetry,  and 
its  impassioned  expression,  the  latter  is  the  superior  of 
Rogers ;  but  the  clear  elegance  of  the  productions  of 
the  departed  poet,  their  graceful  harmony  and  polished 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  231 

thoughts,  are  sometimes  more  attractive  than  the  sub 
tile  and  beautiful  ideas  of  the  living  one,  and  are, 
perhaps,  as  much  to  be  studied  and  admired  in  these 
days  of  vague  expression  and  meaningless  words.  But 
pray  you  lighten  the  heavy  hours  of  a  winter's  evening, 
at  Trifleton  House,  by  comparing  the  two  yourself. 
Not  as  Umber  does,  however  ;  for  though  he  admires 
Browning,  with  a  mischievous  humor  he  tears  some  of 
the  most  obscure  lines  from  the  context,  and  delights 
in  showing  their  nonsense  —  when  thus  treated  —  by 
the  side  of  some  of  the  sweetest,  and  simplest,  and 
most  expressive  of  the  well-studied  verses  of  Rogers. 
That  is  the  way  many  critics  do,  but,  as  you  value 
your  own  progress  by  weary  steps  up  Parnassus,  be 
not  guilty  of  such  judgments. 

At  the  Hard  Mansion  there  have  been  some  dark 
days.  Dicky  Dawson  has  been  very  ill  there.  The 
fever  has  run  high,  and  for  a  time  the  doctor  said  the 
chances  of  recovery  were  very  faint.  And  as  the  poor 
boy  lay  there —  on  Abel's  bed  and  in  his  care  —  mur 
muring  indistinct  words,  as  if  to  his  mother,  and  clutch 
ing  at  the  bed-clothes,  and  looking  up  with  glassy  eye, 
it  seemed  that  the  doctor  must  be  right,  and  that  the 
course  of  the  sufferer  must  be  short.  But  the  ways  of 
Providence  are  not  scrutable  to  doctors.  There  were 
kind  hearts  and  willing  hands  about  the  sick  boy,  and 
comforts  which  seem  sent  to  him  providentially.  The 
fever  had  its  run  and  subsided,  the  mists  rolled  away 
from  his  brain,  and  the  doctor  has  pronounced  him 
safe.  Safe  I  —  ay,  in  Heaven's  keeping  and  by  God's 
mercy  —  not  by  virtue  of  physic.  Yet  the  doctor  was 
kind  and  attentive,  and  is  skilful  withal,  but  even  the 


232  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

skilfulest  and  kindest  is  only  an  instrument.  However, 
it  is  enough  for  the  household,  and  the  relief  of  the 
anxious,  that  the  doctor  pronounces  him  safe. 

We  went  a  few  evenings  since  to  the  mansion,  with 
die  purpose  —  was  it  not  kind  of  us,  Trifle?  —  of 
cheering  Abel's  solitude  a  little,  and  relieving  the  mo 
notony  of  his  close-watching  by  the  bedside  of  his  sick 
protege.  We  were  surprised  to  learn  he  was  not  at 
home  ;  but  Mr.  Umber,  the  servant  said,  was  in  the 
library  !  Umber  domiciled  here,  and  Abel  gone  ! 
What  has  happened  to  bring  this  about  ?  Is  it  a  token 
of  Umber's  good  fortune  ?  So  we  thought  as  we  en 
tered  the  hall  and  were  ushered  into  the  library. 

Umber  was  "  at  home,"  certainly.  Dressing-gown 
and  slippers  and  his  lazy  posture  in  an  easy  chair,  said 
that  very  emphatically.  He  was  at  home  for  the  eve 
ning,  with  no  apparent  intention  of  quitting  his  comfort 
able  quarters  this  night,  and  on  the  contrary  assuming 
a  very  host-like  air,  as  he  greeted  us. 

"  But  how  is" this,  Umber  ?  Have  you  actually  be 
come  one  of  the  family  ?  " 

"  The  whole  of  it,  doing  the  honors  of  the  tea  table 
to  myself,  and  entertaining  myself  after  the  most  ap 
proved  fashion,  as  you  see.  Abel  has  installed  me  here 
for  a  few  days  —  more  or  less  —  to  have  a  care  for 
this  boy,  whom  he  saved  from  drowning  to  be  a  great 
trouble  to  him." 

"  And  Abel  ?  " 

"  Has  gone  again  ?  " 

"Whither?" 

"  To  more  sorrow,  I  fear.  A  letter  yesterday  in 
formed  him  that  Lily  was  failing  rapidly,  with  a  bad 


TRIFLETON    TAPERS.  233 

cough  and  other  unpromising  symptoms  of  sudden 
growth.  A  letter  from  Lily  herself,  full  of  gentle  love 
—  he  read  it  to  me  —  and  a  gentler  spirit  of  resigna 
tion  which  triumphed  over  the  anguish  of  her  heart, 
told  him  that  she  believes  her  days  will  soon  be  num 
bered,  and  expressed  a  wish  to  see  him  again.  He 
needed  no  other  summons,  and  in  his  haste  to  com 
ply  with  this  request,  he  half  conquered  the  misery 
and  dread  which  at  first  overwhelmed  him.  He  went 
this  morning,  leaving  me  to  look  after  the  boy  whom  I 
have  just  translated  to  dream-land  by  reading  poetry, 
and  now  I  am  at  your  service." 

"  If  Bel  were  here,  now " 

"  I  should  not  be." 

Then  Umber  grew  thoughtful.  We  fell  to  musing, 
too,  checked  by  the  grave  tone  of  his  voice  ;  and  look 
ing  into  the  hissing  Cannel  in  the  grate,  —  that  fire 
shall  ever  be  our  delight  !  —  we  thought  of  the  Hon. 
Mr.  Weed,  calculating  how  many  weeks  or  months  it 
might  be,  before  Madame  should  make  the  mansion 
brilliant  for  the  consummation  of  her  plans  to  unite 
her  only  daughter  with  that  piece  of  human  —  broad 
cloth,  money  and  vice.  Umber,  perhaps,  was  thinking 
of  the  same  thing,  for  he  spoke,  half  to  us,  and  half  to 
himself. 

"  Bel  is  unhappy,  and  is  waywardly,  or  perhaps  un 
der  the  pressure  of  circumstances,  hastening  her  own 
misery.  If  I  could  but  dispel  the  cold,  unhealthy  at 
mosphere  which  surrounds  her  heart !  But  I  am  too 
poor  to  presume  to  say  I  love  her,  and  too  proud  to 
subject  myself  to  scorn.  Our  old  friendship  only  seems 
to  compel  her  to  raise  a  barrier  between  her  heart  and 


234  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

me,  and  as  I  seek  to  break  over  that  barrier,  and  to 
know  and  make  her  know  what  her  heart  really  is,  the 
more  sedulously  she  raises  and  preserves  it.  She  is  a 
paradox.  She  despises  him  whose  wife  she  is  hasten 
ing  to  be  ;  she  repels  me  whom  she  might  love  —  if  I 
were  not  what  I  am." 

"  Like  all  women,  she  loves  display,  and  would 
marry  the  wealth  which  can  afford  it." 

"  All  women  ?  " 

"  Most  women,  then." 

"  Education  and  fashion  are  generally  responsible 
for  such  feelings,  or  such  actions,  rather  ;  and  in  Bel's 
case  add  her  mother's  influence.  Underneath  the  con 
ventional  character  which  she  assumes,  I  know  there  is 
something  better,  —  a  spirit  like  that  expressed  in  the 
idealized  portrait  of  her,  only  more  passionate." 

"  Have  you  made  friends  with  her  for  that  offence  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  seen  her  since.  But  if  I  could  read 
aright,  she  is  too  true  a  woman  not  to  feel  and  appre 
ciate  the  purpose  of  that  picture  —  when  she  had 
time  for  thought." 

"  You  extol  her." 

"  Not  above  her  worth.  Yet  am  I  a  fool  to  dream 
as  I  do." 

There  was  the  jingle  of  bells  in  the  avenue,  and 
then  a  ring  at  the  door,  voices  and  a  stir  in  the  hall, 
during  which  Umber  and  we  looked  at  each  other  with 
a  due  sense  of  the  awkwardness  in  which  we  were 
placed  as  guests  without  a  host.  Before  we  had  re 
covered  from  our  surprise,  the  door  opened,  and  Bel 
Hard  entered  hurriedly.  We  had  both  risen,  and  Bel, 
passing  me  with  a  gentle  salutation,  hastened  to  Um- 


TIUFLETON    PAPERS.  235 

ber,  whom  in  his  domestic  garb  she  at  first  mistook  for 
Abel.  But  she  stopped  suddenly. 

"  Ah  !  I  thought  it  was  my  brother." 

She  held  out  her  hand  cordially  to  Umber,  though 
her  lip  quivered  as  she  spoke.  He  took  it  for  a  mo 
ment,  but  before  he  could  say  why  he,  and  not  Abel, 
was  there,  Bel  burst  into  tears,  and  left  the  room  as 
hastily  as  she  entered  it. 

This  sudden  appearance  and  strange  agitation  were 
hardly  realized,  before  we  were  made  aware  of  the 
worldly  presence  of  Madame  Hard,  to  whom  all  due 
explanations  were  made,  and  we  departed. 

Women  weep  when  they  are  happiest,  do  they  not? 


236  TEIFLETON    PAPERS. 


XXVII. 


TRIFLETOX  HOUSE, 
In  the  month  of  drained  purges. 

I  PRESUME  you  have  had  plenty  of  New  Year's 
presents  ;  —  of  that  kind  we  family  men  usually  get, 
—  one  from  the  grocer,  one  from  the  butcher,  one 
from  the  baker,  one  from  the  tailor;  and  —  to  sum 
it  all  up  in  a  word  —  a  great  many  from  a  great  many 
others  you  expected  nothing  from  ;  people  you  had 
almost  forgotten,  in  fact,  but  who  kindly  remembered 
you,  considerate  souls  ! 

There  is  always  more  or  less  obligation  connected 
with  this  system  of  holiday  presents,  and  a  spirited 
person  likes  to  make  some  return  for  his  gifts.  Hence 
I  find  it  a  good  way  to  ascertain  as  nearly  as  possible, 
the  value  in  money  of  my  presents,  and  to  force  the 
amount,  be  it  more  or  less,  upon  my  donors.  A  gener 
ous  grocer,  or  a  clement  butcher  wilt  waive  the  deli 
cacy  of  the  thing,  and  accept  it  at  once.  I  have  even 
seen  those  who  would  coolly  give  you  a  receipt,  and 
write  upon  it  those  quaint  words,  "  received  payment;  " 
which  indicates  to  my  mind  that  they  actually  expect 
to  be  paid  in  money  for  every  present  they  make  ! 

Money  is  a  formidable  agent.  Men  are  conciliated 
by  it,  and  women  barter  away  their  happiness  for  it. 
The  shabby  brethren  of  Joseph  exposed  themselves 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  237 

to  eternal  animadversion  for  a  scanty  amount  of  it ; 
and  Judas  betrayed  our  Saviour  for  a  few  insignifi 
cant  pieces  of  silver.  And  yet,  is  a  little  money  a 
most  convenient  thing  to  have  in  the  early  part  of 
January.  It  is  not  necessarily  the  cause,  but  it  is 
veritably  the  means  of  much  happiness,  in  a  world 
like  this. 

It's  excellent  to  make  and  pay  presents  with. 

I  trust,  my  Editor,  that  you  have  an  exuberance  of 
it  about  this  time.  But  Editors,  after  all,  have  very 
little  need  of  it,  for  are  they  not  supplied  constantly 
with  the  choicest  luxuries,  with  season  tickets  to  the 
Theatre,  and  complimentary  tickets  to  the  Opera? 
And  consider  their  libraries !  Every  new  book  is 
anxiously  thrust  upon  them,  while  neither  Phillips 
&  Sampson,  Ticknor  &  Fields,  nor  Whittemore,  Niles 
&  Co.  ever  impart  a  solitary  volume  to  luckless 
Trifle,  without  compensation  therefor  in  lucre.  My 
real  belief  is  that  these  publishers  try  to  make  all 
of  us,  who  are  not  Editors,  wretched.  For  we  want 
their  books.  To  be  without  them,  is  to  be  wretched  ; 
—  and  to  be  continually  paying  our  dollars  away  for 
them,  is  to  be  wretched  also.  For  what  have  we  left, 
in  order  to  pay  our  New  Year's  presents,  withal  ? 

Being  in  rather  a  dingy  status  from  trains  of  thought 
somewhat  kindred  to  these,  and  reflecting  upon  the 
lapse  of  years  and  the  increased  expenditures  of  liv 
ing,  I  looked  in  some  days  since  upon  Goody  Green, 
to  sec  how  the  sharp  severity  of  the  new  year  was 
affecting  her,  and  to  inform  her  that  I  had  ordered 
a  few  articles  of  fuel,  clothing,  &c.,  for  her. 

I  found  her,  as  usual,  cheerful  and  happy,  toasting 


238  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

her  shins  by  her  stove,  which  answers  alike  for  culi 
nary  purposes  and  for  warming  her  apartments ;  and 
her  gratitude  was  unbounded  for  my  trifling  donations. 
Mr.  Editor,  she  is  happy,  poor  though  she  be. 

If  you  wish  to  know  what  real  happiness  is,  she  can 
inform  you. 

As  she  worked,  with  nimble  fingers,  upon  her  old 
shreds  of  list,  and  fragments  of  cloth,  flannel,  and 
what  not,  with  which  she  fabricates  her  "  rag  car 
pets  "  (her  usual  occupation),  I  took  occasion  to  ask 
her  how  she  relished  the  idea  of  adventuring  upon 
another  year  of  life,  and  added  that  her  lot  was  rather 
a  hard  one. 

u  Yes,"  said  she,  "  so  you  folks  who  live  in  fine 
houses  say  ;  but  I'm  very  comfortable,  —  I  be." 

"  But  you  are  growing  old,  and  can't  work  much 
longer !  " 

"Yes,  I'm  almost  home,  and  what  mercies  I've  had, 
(I  shuddered  at  my  own  ingratitude,  as  1  looked  around 
her  wretched  apartments),  and  how  kind  the  Lord  is 
that's  always  taken  care  of  me  !  When  I  think  o'  the 
poor,  this  bitter  weather,  that  ha'n't  got  no  home,  (oh, 
God  forgive  me,  I  inwardly  prayed),  I  feel  I  have  much 
to  be  thankful  for." 

"  But  do  you  never  think  that  you  may  be  worse  off, 
and  that  these  hard  times  may  reduce  you  to  a  state  in 
which  you  would  find  it  difficult  to  sustain  your  present 
condition  ?  "  I  inquired,  in  a  very  questionable  if  not 
almost  mean  spirit  of  curiosity  —  which  I  could  not 
resist. 

"  Sometimes  ;    but  such  thoughts  is  (are)   pernici 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  239 

"  The  world,  though,  is  cold  and  heartless,  and 
friends  are  few  and  inconstant." 

"  I  don't  mind  the  world,"  she  exclaimed,  turn 
ing  towards  me  with  a  glowing  countenance,  "  and 
I  have  faith  in  the  Lord.  He  is  my  friend." 

"  He  may  console  and  comfort  you  ;  but,  while 
we  live  in  this  world,  do  we  not  need  food  and 
raiment  ?  "  said  I,  pushing  her  faith  to  its  severest 
test,  in  spite  of  the  conviction  that  I  had  no  right 
thus  to  catechize  her. 

"  He  will  give  me  all  I  wants,"  she  replied.  "  Miss 
Pink  reads  to  me  that  He  commanded  the  ravens  to 
feed  Elijah,  and  about  the  poor  widow  whose  barrel 
of  meal  never  wasted,  and  whose  cruise  of  oil  never 
failed.  I  have  faith  to  believe  He  will  always  take 
care  o'  me  ;  and,  then,  our  blessed  Lord  and  Saviour 
said  we  musn't  take  no  thought  o'  such  things,  but 
that  we  must  seek  fust  .(first)  the  kingdom  o'  Heaven, 
and  all  sich  (such)  things  should  be  added  unto  us  — 
or  the  like  o'  that." 

And  so  is  she  happy,  my  Editor,  from  sheer  Faith. 
Do  you  understand  it  ?  There  is  something  certainly 
mysterious  in  this  FaitJi,  which  is  thus  the  sum  and 
substance,  quite,  of  a  human  life  ;  —  something  which 
will  not  be  gainsaid,  and  which  .utterly  conquers  and 
exorcises  the  temptation  to  despair,  or  even  to  repine 
and  despond. 

1  know  many  cultured  men  who  could  argue  this 
poor  old  woman  -down,  but  whom,  in  the  end,  she 
could  subdue  without  argument. 

I  will  not  narrate  to  you,  in  detail,  all  the  conversation 
I  had  with  her.  Suffice  it  to  say  I  left  her  "  a  sadder 


210  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

and  a  wiser  man."  She  said,  among  other  things, 
that  she  couldn't  understand  our  habits  of  thought  and 
action. 

She  informed  me  that  she  thought  Pink  was  unhappy 
(I  tell  it  to  you  in  my  own  language),  because  she  was 
laboring  under  the  idea  she  had  wronged  some  "one  ; 
and  that  she  advised  her  to  make  amends  for  it  by 
acknowledging  her  error  and  asking  the  forgiveness 
of  the  person  she  had  wronged  ;  that  Pink  said  that, 
was  hard  to  do,  and  would  cost  a  great  sacrifice  of 
pride  and  self-respect ;  that  she  told  her  self-respect 
was  oftentimes  only  another  name  for  what  was 
haughty  and  imperious,  and  sinful  in  the  sight  of 
God,  and  that  a  chivalric  and  generous  spirit  thought 
not  so  much  of  what  was  agreeable  to  selfish  prompt 
ings,  as  of  what  was  right  and  just;  that  it  was  easy 
to  do  wrong,  but  hard  to  do  right,  according  to  the 
conventionalisms  of  society  ;  .but  that  the  more  we 
discarded  these  wretched  conventionalisms,  and  the 
nearer  we  approached  a  state  of  simplicity  and  na 
ture,  the  simpler,  and  purer,  and  holier  we  should 
become,  —  that  we  should  be  happier  ourselves,  and 
make  those  around  us  happier. 

A  very  simple  and  ignorant  woman  is  poor  Goody 
Green,  but  she  is  also  —  very  wise.  Think  of  her 
advising  Pink,  and  what  is  stranger  still,  think  of  Pink's 
asking  her  advice  ! 

She  says  she  considers  that  Pink  is  vastly  changed 
from  what  she  was  a  few  months  since,  and  that  it's  a 
great  pity  she  is  to  marry  the  man  with  the  corn- 
colored  gloves  ;  but  he  is  impatient,  and  the  wedding 
day  has  been  fixed.  It  is  drawing  very  nigh,  and  is 
only  some  six  or  eight  weeks  off. 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  241 

Good  bye,  Pink. 

Goody  insists  to  me  that  she  ought  to  marry  Stubs  ; 
so  little  does  she  know  of  this  world  and  its  ways. 

She  has  not  been  in  society. 

Stubs  is  her  idol.  She  exaggerates  his  virtues.  His 
faults  she  has  never  seen.  She  exhibited  much  concern 
in  regard  to  the  result  of  his  suit.  I  promised  her  she 
should  hear  about  it. 

She  will. 

Pink  took  tea  and  spent  last  evening  with  us.  It 
has  been,  as  you  are  aware,  a  considerable  length 
of  time  since  I  have  seen  her.  I  should  scarcely 
know  her.  She  is  still  surpassingly  beautiful,  but 
she  looks  worn  and  anxious.  She  is  thinner  and 
paler  than  ever  before.  Her  cheek  is  not  the  color 
of  the  radish  now. 

She  was  sitting  quietly  after  tea  with  Pat.,  at  a  small 
work-table.  .They  were  both  engaged  at  their  work, 
and  interesting  themselves  in  some  private  conversa 
tion,  in  which  they  evidently  didn't  wish  me  to  partici 
pate.  I  therefore  smoked  my  cigar  and  read  my  paper 
in  silence.  I  had  no  desire  to  disturb  them,  and  I  was 
quite  satisfied  with  the  conversation  I  was  holding  with 
myself.  At  times,  my  Editor,  when  I  am  in  good 
humor,  I  find  myself  tolerably  good  company —  quite 
entertaining,  in  fact. 

But  not  a  great  while  can  two  feminines  talk  simply 
with  each  other,  when  there  is  one  of  us  distin 
guished  "  lords  of  creation  "  in  the  room  —  and  Pat. 
inquired  — 

"  Trifle,  what's  the  news  from  town  ?  " 

"  Not  much,"  I  replied,  "  except let  me  think 

16 


242  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

—  ah  !  yes,  except  this  letter  which  I  received  to-day 
from  —  Stubs." 

I  glanced  at  Pink.  She  seemed  in  no  way  inter 
ested,  but  went  on  with  her  work.  She  didn't  even 
look  up. 

I  read  the  following  extract :  — 

"  The  opinion  of  the  Court  has  been  given  ;  it  is 
against  us.  I  shall  come  immediately  home." 

"  Oh,  how  sorry  I  am  !  "  exclaimed  Pat.  "  Stubs 
will  be  so  unhappy,  stripped  of  his  property.  I  pity 
him  from  my  heart." 

Pink  still  worked  on  most  vigorously.  It  so  hap 
pened  that  a  book  I  wanted  was  lying  on  the  work- 
table,  and  as  I  was  unwilling  to  trouble  her  to  hand  it 
to  me,  I  walked  up  to  the  table  and  took  it  myself,  and 
how  could  1  avoid  seeing  her  tears  falling  like  rain 
upon  her  worsted,  or  what  not,  which  she  was  vainly 
attempting  to  get  out  of  the  snarl  in  which  she  had 
entangled  it.  She  had  been  working  all  the  time  with 
great  assiduity,  and  I  was  surprised  to  see  the  kind  of 
progress  she  had  made  ;  and  why  she  selected  such  a 
moment  for  crying,  is  more  than  I  know.  But  who 
can  understand  women  ?  —  Without  noticing  her  em 
barrassment  (and  neither  she  nor  Pat.  knew  I  observed 
it),  I  remarked  carelessly,  — 

"  I  am  glad  Stubs  has  lost  his  case." 

As  in  the  olden  time,  Pink  turned  towards  me,  her 
head  no  longer  drooping,  but  thrown  back  proudly, 
her  eyes  kindling  and  blazing  with  fire,  and  the  tears, 
which  were  still  swimming  in  them,  glaring  like  dia 
monds,  and  inquired  — 

"  Is  such,  then,  a  man's  view  of  his  friend's  misfor- 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  243 

tune  ?  How  charitable  it  is  !  "  (with  a  slight  curl  of  the 

HP.) 

"  It  is,"  said  1,  quite  satisfied  with  my  experiment, 
"  and  it  is  also  a  charitable  view.  In  both  particulars 
you  are  correct  —  as  you  generally  are." 

A  shudder  again  —  a  struggle,  and  the  fire  in  her 
eyes  went  out,  and  she  was  meekness  illustrated. 

"  Pardon  me,  dear  Trifle,  but  I  do  not  quite  under 
stand  you." 

"  Stubs  has  been  a  fool  most  of  his  life." 

"  How  ?  what  do  you  mean  ?  are  you  jesting  ?  " 

These  questions  came  all  in  a  breath,  with  great 
rapidity  —  vehemence  almost.  She  looked  up  in  my 
face  with  a  gaze  of  such  beaming,  earnest  inquiry, 
of  such  radiant,  sparkling  intelligence,  that  I  thought 
it  was  not  only  not  surprising  that  Stubs  should  have 
loved  her  so,  but  surprising,  rather,  that  the  whole 
world  did  not. 

"  I  never  jest,"  I  answered,  "  upon  subjects  of  this 
character.  What  I  mean  is,  that  Stubs,  who  has  ca 
pacity,  only  wanted  necessity  to  provoke  it  into 'action 
in  order  to  make  his  mark.  That  necessity  has  come." 

She  replied  with  a  smile,  such  as  no  woman  1  ever 
saw  could  command,  and  was  eagerly  putting  another 
interrogatory,  when  I  interrupted  her  with  — 

"  But  I  ask  your  pardon  for  saying  so  much  of  my 
absent  friend.  You  will  think  I  have  no  interest  in 
you.  Come,  let's  hear  about  the  great  event.  Is 
the  dress  selected  ?  Are  we  quite  ready,  Pink,  and 
how  does  he  feel  about  it  ?  Does  he  write  most  tender 
letters,  urging  you  to  have  compassion  on  his  impa 
tience  ?  " 


244  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

"  Why,  how  foolish  you  are,  Trifle,"  said  my  inter 
esting  Pat. 

I'm  sure  I  could  see  no  impropriety  in  what  I  had 
said,  and  I  looked  to  ascertain  if  Pink  were  at  all 
hurt.  I  was  startled  —  shocked,  I  may  say.  A  look 
of  wretchedness  was  on  her  face,  such  as  I  have 
never  seen  except  on  the  countenance  of  Mrs.  Fan 
ny  Kemble,  when  representing  Queen  Catherine,  in 
one  of  her  readings.  I  said  nothing  further.  A  long 
pause  ensued,  when,  presently,  a  voice  was  heard 
crying,  in  eager,  almost  jubilant  tones,  u  Trifle,  Pat., 
I  am  home  again  ! "  and  my  hand  was  wrung,  and 
Pat.'s  lips  were  warmly  kissed  before  we  could  scarce 
ly  collect  our  senses  at  the  sight  of Stubs. 

My  duty  is  to  record  facts,  and  disguise  nothing  in 
this  most  veracious  history. 

Pink  started.  Evidently  struggling  with  emotions 
she  found  it  impossible  to  resist,  she  rose  from  her 
seat,  and,  bowing,  attempted  to  speak  ;  when,  turning 
very  pale,  she  began  to  tremble,  and  would,  I  think, 
have  fallen  to  the  floor,  if  he  had  not  caught  her  in  his 
arms.  He  laid  her  on  the  sofa,  and  forgetful  of  time, 
place,  and  circumstance,  kissed  her  like  a  madman  — 
brow,  cheek  and  lips. 

Pat.  and  I  stood  spell-bound. 

Once  she  opened  her  eyes,  and  a  sweet  and  quasi 
angelic  smile  passed  over  her  face.  She  lifted  her 
arms  involuntarily,  and  wound  them  round  his  neck, 
and  —  again  she  was  like  one  dead. 

Pat.  and  I  were  awed.  A  moment  more  and  we 
were  deluging  her  with  restoratives. 

I  have  told  you  in  a  former  letter  how  Stubs  and 
Pink  parted. 


TRIFLETON   PAPERS.  245 

It  was  thus  they  met. 

Said  Pat  —  "  She  has  had  these  headaches  frequently 
of  late.     They  always  make  her  faint." 
There  spoke  the  woman  ! 

Item.  —  Pink's  father  has  failed  in  business.  He  is 
deeply  insolvent.  She  don't  know  it,  as  yet.  But  I 
do.  What  think  you  of  the  world,  my  Editor  ? 

I  incline  more  and  more  to  the  opinion  that  Pink  has 
a  heart. 


246  TRIFLETON   PAPERS. 


XXVIII. 


THE  ARM  CHAIR, 
At  the  close  of  the  1st  month,  '56. 

MONEY  !  That  is  the  text  of  your  last  letter  from 
the  date  thereof  to  the  "  item  "  which  mentions  the 
failure  of  Pink's  father.  A  very  suggestive  subject, 
truly.  Suggestive  of  misery,  however,  as  much  as 
pleasure  and  happiness,  —  misery  to  yourself,  who 
fall  into  a  "  dingy  status"  (that's  a  queer  expression,) 
as  if  Trifleton  House  were  insolvent,  and  misery  to 
your  friends,  who  have  the  misfortune  to  lose  their 
property  and  to  become  as  poor  —  as  we  are. 

Money  is,  in  truth,  a  "  formidable  agent,"  as  you 
say.  We  should  say  that  it  is  a  formidable  foe. 
Nevertheless,  it  is  a  powerful  agent.  It  is  a  means 
for  innumerable  ends,  good  and  evil,  great  and  small ; 
but  unfortunately  some  of  us  have  more  ends  than 
means.  It  procures  a  pinch  of  snuff,  a  penny  paper, 
and  a  polish  on  the  boots,  and  it  likewise  procures 
broad  domains,  palaces  and  pictures,  and  splendid 
equipage.  It  procures  misery  and  pains  too  ;  but 
then  it  finds  the  doctors  to  cure  such  ills.  It  pur 
chases  men  and  women,  services,  sometimes  love, 
souls  even.  It  brings  pleasure,  but  with  all  its  might 
it  can't  get  happiness. 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  247 

Gold  and  silver  are  generally  supposed  to  be  the 
true  currency,  the  only  real  money,  and  when  one 
can  get  them  they  are  certainly  not  to  be  declined. 
Even  paper  money  —  those  pretty  pictures  which  men 
"make  believe"  are  money  —  is  not  to  be  altogether 
disregarded.  But  there  is  another  metal,  which,  though 
not  absolutely  "legal  tender"  (nor,  in  fact,  tender  in 
any  way)  is  quite  as  current  and  quite  as  potent  with 
those  who  have  enough  of  it.  Brass  was  a  common 
and  very  useful  coin,  in  olden  time,  and  for  many  cen 
turies  it  has  been  used  more  or  less,  but  chiefly  among 
the  most  enlightened  nations. 

At  the  present  day,  though  it  do  not  always  bear 
the  regal  effigies  or  the  national  mint  stamp,  it  never 
was  more  current  or  more  potent.  Some  people  style 
it  a  base  metal.  But  if  its  value  be  measured  or 
weighed  by  what  it  purchases  or  accomplishes,  it  is 
wonderfully  precious. 

Some  of  us,  Trifle,  have  as  little  of  this  latter  cur 
rency  as  we  have  of  the  former.  It  is  a  great  misfor 
tune,  for  he  who  has  not  gold  and  silver,  ought  surely 
to  have  brass.  Else  how  can  he  get  along  in  this 
world,  where  everybody  progresses  only  by  means  of 
'hese  metals  ? 

Let  us  look  around  and  see  how  the  world,  just  about 
us,  goes.  Don't  you  see  the  force  of  brass  ?  Observe 

how  II prospers  in  his  business  on  that  large 

capital  of  this  same  metal;  —  how  B rapidly 

mounts  the  political  ladder  by  the  liberal  use  of  it ;  — 

how  L achieves  matrimony  and  wealth  at  once  by 

wearing  a  circlet  of  it  under  his  "  Hyperion  curls." 
In  short,  see  how  in  things  great  and  small  it  is  as 


248  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

formidable  as  gold  —  if  in  skilful  hands.  There  is  one 
inconvenience  to  some  people  about  it ;  for  however 
rich  it  makes  its  possessor,  they  who  part  with  their 
goods  under  the  temptation  it  offers,  seldom  find  that 
they  have  an  equivalent  for  that  with  which  they 
parted.  It  makes  him  who  buys  with  it  rich,  but 
impoverishes  him  on  whom  it  is  bestowed. 

But  after  all,  what  are  the  effects  of  any  of  these 
metals,  gold,  silver,  or  brass,  wherewith  men  get  pos 
sessions,  upon  the  heart  and  soul  ?  Do  they  not  weigh 
heavily  there  ?  —  overshadowing  and  crushing  out  the 
affections,  and  the  hopes  and  aspirations  which  but  for 
this  dull,  solid  weight,  might  have  grown  upward  and 
borne  good  fruit,  —  might  have  secured  possessions 
more  lasting  ?  From  the  world  come  silent  answers 
in  numberless  examples. 

Look  up,  then,  ye  unfortunate,  who  possess  neither 
gold,  nor  silver,  nor  brass,  but  have  that  within  you 
which  can  look  up.  Around  your  hearts  shall  not  be 
reared  the  hard,  cold  walls  over  whose  battlements  you 
may  not  look  forth  upon  God's  works.  No  canopy  of 
earthly  ores  shall  shut  out  from  you  the  sight  of  the 
heavens.  No  clanking  chains,  whether  of  gold  or 
silver,  shall  fetter  you  to  earth.  Thus  far  have  ye 
an  advantage  over  some  ye  deem  more  fortunate.  For 
the  rest,  be  earnest,  thoughtful,  courageous,  just  and 
honest,  and  notwithstanding  an  occasional  rebuff  or 
defeat  in  your  campaign  with  fortune,  you  will  tri 
umph  in  the  end.  Yes,  all  of  you,  —  Trifle,  Stubs, 
Umber. 

Even  Umber,  though  we  begin  to  have  some  doubts 
about  him,  he  has  become  so  despondent,  at  times. 


TRIFLETON    TAPERS.  249 

Ever  since  the  return  of  Madame  Hard  and  Bel,  he 
has  appeared  dull,  sometimes  even  stupid,  as  if  he 
were  in  a  dream.  The  shock  of  that  sudden  return 
which  found  him  domesticated  at  the  mansion  seems 
to  have  had  a  bad  effect. 

A  day  or  two  since  he  came  in,  bringing  a  letter 
which  he  had  received  from  Abel  Hard.  Handing  it 
to  us  he  asked  us  to  read  and  "  make  a  note  "  of  it, 
and  seizing  a  book  he  threw  himself  on  the  sofa  with 
no  more  words,  but  a  troubled  expression  on  his 
face.  We  read  the  letter,  which  contained  the  fol 
lowing  : 

"Our  worst  fears  are  but  too  certain  to  be  realized, 
and  even  now  we  begin  to  dread  only  the  hour  of  that 
sad  certainty,  that  Lily  must  die.  Too  surely,  too 
plainly,  she  fails.  Hemorrhage  and  a  cough  wear 
upon  her  weakened  frame  but  too  rapidly  and  too  per 
ceptibly.  How  has  she  changed  since  I  first  learned 
the  rapture  of  our  mutual  love  !  Pale  and  thin  she 
seems  to  have  grown  ethereal.  Her  soft  eye  has 
acquired  an  unusual  brilliancy  and  an  expression  of 
deeper  feeling  —  of  more  heavenly  feeling,  1  think, 
as  it  turned  upon  me  with  a  bright  glance,  but  with 
unutterable  tenderness. 

44  We  have  conversed  much,  and  freely.  I  think 
I  have  listened  to  an  angel  as  she  spoke,  she  has 
uttered  such  words  of  truth,  and  cheering  hope,  and 
of  deep  religious  faith.  And  while  I  stand,  as  it 
were,  on  the  very  verge  of  an  overwhelming  sor 
row,  she  has  borne  me  up  across  the  chasm,  and 
pointed  me  on  to  a  happy  future.  She  has,  like  the 
sun,  gilded  the  clouds  that  hang  about  her  depart- 


250  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

ure,  and  opened  through  them  visions  of  far  reach 
ing,  infinite  beauty.  She  leads  me  on  —  O  God  !  that 
I  may  follow  her  !  —  by  endless  progress  onward  and 
upward  towards  the  perfect. 

"  I  marvel,  myself,  at  the  change  which  has  come 
over  me  under  Lily's  influence.  I  came  here  in  rest 
less  sorrow,  tortured  with  the  dread  of  losing  the  price 
less  treasure  I  had  just  found.  In  my  grief  my  spirit 
was  rebellious  against  the  decrees  of  Heaven.  But 
now,  when  I  know  more  certainly  that  what  I  most 
feared  must  come,  and  watch  the  days  go  by  which 
surely  bring  the  end,  I  look  upon  it  calmly,  —  I  look 
beyond  with  an  indefinable  but  a  sustaining  hope. 
Something  of  that  heavenly  resignation,  which  seems 
now  to  be  the  very  essence  of  her  being,  is  infused  into 
my  own  nature  by  the  force  of  its  purity  and  strength, 
and  the  passionate  spirit,  chafing  with  a  selfish  sorrow, 
is  subdued,  and  softened,  and  cheered. 

"  Lily's  father,  in  his  anxiety  and  affection  for  her, 
has  forgotten  his  misanthropy  and  his  misfortunes  even. 
Her  gentle  —  oh,  more  than  gentle,  her  angelic  spirit 
has  wrought  a  change  in  him,  too.  But  his  heart  is 
full  of  an  unutterable  grief.  And  for  him,  whom  she 
will  leave  alone  in  his  sorrow,  is  Lily's  deepest  regret. 

"  I  wish  that  Bel  were  here.  The  icy  garb  which 
envelopes  her  warm,  true  heart,  would  be  swept  away 
forever.  Commend  to  her  care,  when  she  returns, 
the  boy,  for  the  sake  of  Dawson,  who  nurses  Lily 
with  so  much  devotion." 

When  we  had  read  this  letter,  of  which  we  give  you 
but  a  part,  we  turned  to  Umber.  He  was  looking 
intently  on  the  book  which  he  held,  but  it  was  upside 
down.  He  started  as  we  spoke. 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  251 

"  Abel  tells  a  sad  story,  yet  he  is  hardly  more  to 
be  pitied  than  congratulated." 

"He  is  .much  more  to  be  congratulated  than  pitied. 
He  has  attained  the  true  happiness  of  love  in  a  return  of 
his  affection.1" 

"  But  is  he  not  to  be  pitied  that  death  must  divide 
them  so  soon  ?  " 

"  Better  be  divided  by  death  than  folly.  But  even 
there  he  is  not  to  be  pitied  ;  for  under  less  affliction 
their  affection  would  have  been  less  pure  and  elevated, 
and  would  not  have  had  the  influence  which  it  now 
has.  It  is  because  he  loves,  as  it  seems  to  him,  an 
angel,  and  listens  to  words  spoken  almost  from  another 
world,  that  Lily  has  so  broken  through  his  second  na 
ture  and  lifted  up  his  thoughts  from  selfish  sorrow  to 
pure  hopes." 

"  It  is  a  little  strange  that  the  change  should  have 
been  so  quickly  effected." 

"  Not  remarkable.  Abel  has,  under  the  surface,  a 
deep  religious  sentiment,  which  needed  only  a  break 
ing  of  the  crust  and  the  gentle  encouragement  which 
such  a  spirit  as  Lily's  affords  him.  It  is  a  sentiment 
that  may  not  tolerate  creeds  and  the  dogmas  of  the 
ology,  but  accepts  the  great  truths  of  religion  which 
tower  above  all  the  mists  raised  by  church  and  sect. 
When  he  was  in  Italy  some  of  the  better  influences 
of  the  church  might  have  made  him  a  Roman  Catholic, 
but  that  he  was  more  repelled  by  dogmas  and  forms 
that  offended  his  religious  feeling.  Now,  that  senti 
ment,  aroused  by  impending  affliction,  is  addressed  in 
a  manner  more  consonant  with  itself,  and  it  follows  the 
aspirations  of  the  purer  nature  which  has  become  his 
teacher  without  forms  and  creeds. 


252  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

"  Will  this  state  of  mind  continue  ?  " 

"  As  it  is  founded  on  a  sentiment  really  strong,  and 
is  sustained  by  affection,  in  which  it  has  in  part  its 
origin,  why  should  it  not  continue  ?  But  I  did  not 
mean  to  discuss  Abel's  sorrows  or  hopes.  I  came  to 
ask  a  favor." 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  That  you  will  take  this  letter  to  Bel  Hard." 

«  Abel's  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Why  do  you  not  go  yourself?  " 

"  I  cannot.  Since  her  return,  Bel  has  pointedly 
shunned  me  when  I  have  called  to  see  the  sick 
boy,  and  once  when  I  found  her  in  the  sick  room, 
she  hastily  withdrew  after  a  most  cold  and  hurried 
salutation.  I  shall  give  her  no  further  offence,  and 
no  opportunity  to  slight  me." 

"  How  can  we  interpret  this  ?  " 

"  Her  nature  is  twofold,  and  the  external,  fashion 
able,  hollow  and  insincere  has  triumphed  over  the 
real,  true  and  lovely." 

"  The  letter  shall  go." 

While  speaking  of  Bel,  Umber's  manner  was  un 
usually  disturbed.  All  his  tones  clearly  expressed  a 
deep  disappointment  which  could  only  be  inferred 
from  his  words.  We  had  no  idea  that  he  was  so 
irretrievably  lost  in  a  hopeless  attachment.  Why,  is 
he  not  poor  and  of  no  account  in  the  world  ?  He 
will,  perhaps,  some  day  achieve  a  name  ;  but  he  will 
be  gray  then,  and  future  fame,  or  greatness,  or  wealth, 
self-achieved,  do  not  pass  current  in  the  present. 

We  went  to  the  mansion  and  inquired  for  Bel.     We 


TEIFLETON    PAPERS.  253 

were  shown  into  a  parlor  where  she  was,  alone.  We 
had  anticipated  that  the  Hon.  Mr.  Weed  might  be 
there,  for  he  has  arrived  from  Washington,  we  learn. 
For  what  purpose  he  has  followed  so  closely  on  the 
returning  steps  of  the  Hards,  we  may  guess.  Bel 
was  alone.  As  we  entered  she  laid  down  a  book  — 
it  was  a  volume  of  Tennyson  —  and  rose  to  meet 
us. 

Has  female  beauty  any  charm  for  you  ?  We  doubt 
if  it  has.  Your  idea  is  satisfied  with  the  loveliness  of 
Pat.,  or  Pink,  or  some  other  friend,  and  you  have  no 
glance,  even,  for  the  beauty  of  a  stranger  or  a  less 
dear  friend.  We  presume  to  be  more  sensible.  Bel 
never  appeared  more  beautiful  than  she  did  then,  and 
she  is  certainly  lelle.  She  has  been  more  brilliant  and 
probably  more  attractive.  But  now  there  was  a  look 
of  deep  sadness  —  not  discontent,  as  we  have  formerly 
seen — on  her  face,  and  her  eye  was  soft  rather  than 
cold  and  languid.  As  she  spoke,  a  faint  sfnile  soft 
ened,  but  did  not  dispel,  the  sad  look,  and  lent  a 
charm  to  her  expression  such  as  we  had  not  before 
seen  on  her  face.  She  was  more  like  Umber's  fancy 
portrait  than  we  had  seen  her  of  late,  only  the  happy 
expression  was  wanting. 

Formalities  being  over  —  there  must  be  some  for 
malities  at  a  mansion  like  the  Hards',  though  Bel  and 
Abel  are  not  particular  about  them — we  presented 
the  letter  which  Abel  had  written  to  Umber,  saying 
it  was  the  request  of  the  latter. 

"  And  could  he  not  come  ?  " 

She  looked  us  full  in  the  face  with  earnest  eyes,  and 


254  TR1FLETON    PAPERS. 

we  could  see  them  fill  with  tears,  as  she  uttered  these 
words  with  a  slight  tremulousness. 

We  are  afraid  we  stammered  as  we  attempted  some 
excuse  for  Umber,  and  doubtless  made  bad  work  of  it, 
for  the  expression  of  bitterness,  too  familiar  on  that  fair 
face,  returned,  and  she  turned  coldly  towards  the  table 
to  read  the  letter. 

"  The  contents  of  the  letter  are  somewhat  sad." 

She  seemed  not  to  hear,  for  she  opened  it  not.  She 
rested  her  brow  upon  one  hand,  the  other  dropped  at 
her  side  and  the  letter  fell  to  the  floor.  There  was 
a  struggle  going  on  in  her  mind,  and  we  were  com 
pelled  to  be  an  unwilling  witness  of  it.  But  we  could 
not  quite  comprehend  it  all.  After  a  few  moments  we 
ventured  to  pick  up  the  letter,  saying, 

"Your  brother  writes  sadly,  but  do  not  anticipate 
bad  news." 

"  Thank  you.     And  pardon  me  for  my  weakness." 

The  '  weakness'  was  not  all  gone,  for  the  effort  to 
speak  calmly  was  not  quite  successful.  She  opened 
the  letter,  but  we  knew  that  those  swimming  eyes 
could  scarcely  decipher  the  touching  words  of  Abel's 
letter.  We  intimated  that  we  would  not  trespass  upon 
her  presence  that  she  might  read  the  letter  more  at 
ease.  Shall  we  ever  forget  the  look  with  which  she 
replied  r  —  the  sweet,  sad,  grateful  smile  that  opened 
to  us  the  knowledge  of  a  heart  we  had  not  dreamed 
was  possessed  by  Bel  Hard  ? 

"  Thank  you." 

Those  were  the  only  words,  but  the  look  and  the 
tone  expressed  infinitely  more. 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  255 

And  so  we  departed,  pondering  on  the  mysteries 
of  life,  and  pitying  Umber,  who  is  to  lose  so  much 
womanly  tenderness  and  worth,  —  pitying  Bel,  who 
is  to  cast  such  pearls  before  —  the  Hon.  Mr.  Weed. 

What  think  we  of  the  world  !  Trifle.  That  there 
is  much  goodness  in  it  which  we  have  not  yet  dis 
covered. 


250  TRIFLETON    TAPERS. 


XXIX. 


TRIFLETOX  HOUSE. 
In  February  of  '56. 

HAVE  you  ever  read  Ovid's  beautiful  poem  of  the 
Four  Ages  ?  If  you  bave,  you  will  doubtless  remem 
ber  how  he  speaks  of  the  inordinate  pursuit  of  gain 
—  amor  sceJeratus  liabendi  —  and  that  he  describes  it 
as  one  of  the  marked  features  of  the  Iron  Age.  Is  not 
all  he  says  as  true  now  as  it  was  in  his  day  ?  I  think 
so,  notwithstanding  all  our  rapid  strides  in  civilization 
of  which  we  boast  so  much. 

But  Ovid  knew  nothing,  or,  at  least,  tells  us  nothing 
of  failures,  as  we  call  them.  They  are  quite  of  our 
day,  and  incidental  to  our  mercantile  communities. 
We  best  illustrate  the  credit  system.  We  all  owe 
each  other,  and  so  far  is  it  possible  for  us  to  live  on 
mere  credit,  and  nothing  else,  that,  when  a  great  mer 
chant  fails,  nobody  is  astonished  that  for  years  he  has 
been  sustaining  an  establishment,  equipage,  and  what 
not,  on  borrowed  capital  ;  and  that  he  hasn't  had  suf 
ficient  moral  courage  to  come  out  and  tell  the  world, 
like  a  man,  of  his  bankrupt  condition.  We  are  a 
"fast"  and  "  stunning"  people,  and  each  one  of  us  is 
eager  to  keep  up  with  the  times,  and  outstrip  his  neigh 
bors  in  external  display  and  glitter.  We,  therefore, 
spend  money  not  only  after,  but  before  we  have  earned 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  257 

it,  and,  when  we  become  embarrassed,  we  run  large 
risks  in  hopes  of  large  gains,  and  the  result  is,  every 
year,  a  series  of  "  failures." 

In  any  point  of  view,  it  is  a  sad  thing  for  a  man  to 
fail.  A  true  man,  indeed,  never  fails  in  the  proper 
significance  of  that  term  ;  but  I  use  it  now  in  its  mer 
cantile  and  American  sense.  Many  a  man  would 
rather  die  than  fail.  No  matter  what  anybody  else 
may  think,  he  at  least  sees  something  in  it  to  be 
ashamed  of — something  ignominious  almost  ;  and  if 
his  nature  be  proud  and  sensitive,  he  will  be  inclmed 
to  quite  break  up,  or  rather,  to  employ  a  ca»t  phrase,, 
"break  down"  under  it,  unless  he  is  sustained  and 
encouraged  by  those  about  him. 

Have  you  ever  been  called  upon  to  sympathize  with 
a  man  in  such  circumstances,  and  to  persuade  him  that 
he  had  still  something  worth  living  for?  Have  you 
ever  met  his  creditors  face  to  face,  and  stood  in  the 
gap  between  their  indignation  and  his  despondency  — 
despair  even,  oftentimes?  If  you  have  not,  I  have. 
I  have  seen  all  sides  of  human  nature,  the  worst  and 
the  best,  and  my  belief  is,  that  though  men  are  selfish, 
they  are  still  open  to  conviction  :  and  however  harshly 
creditors  may  bear  upon  a  failing  man  in  the  first  flush 
of  their  excitement,  in  the  end  they  will  generally  deal 
with  him  justly,  leniently,  generously,  if  he  prove  him 
self  to  be  an  honest  man. 

In  a  world  like  this  we  ought  certainly  to  make 
allowances  for  each  other.  None  of  us  are  infallible. 
All  of  us  are  liable  to  misfortune.  When  a  man  fails, 
then,  however  improvident  and  foolish  he  may  have 
been  in  his  manner  of  conducting  his  business,  let  us 
17 


258  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

be  at  least  charitable.  Let  us  hear  before  we  strike, 
and  treat  him  as  men  and  Christians  should  treat  a  fel 
low  in  his  distress.  We  shall  thus  lose  nothing,  and 
we  may  gain  what  is  invaluable. 

I  have  been  led  into  this  train  of  thought  by  observ 
ing  the  actions  of  Stubs,  since  my  last  letter.  For 
getful  of  his  own  misfortunes,  he  has  undertaken  the 
settlement  of  the  affairs  of  Pink's  father.  He  called 
a  meeting  of  the  Boston  creditors,  which  I  attended  at 
his  request,  and  I  was  much  struck  with  his  conduct 
and  management. 

Who  reviles  lawyers  ? 

Let  such  an  one  see  a  real,  Christian  lawyer,  and 
attempt  to  set  a  value  upon  the  influence  he  is  capable 
of  exerting,  and  we  shall  hear  no  more  contemptuous 
flings  at  the  profession.  It  is  indeed  the  noblest  of 
professions,  in  worthy  hands,  and  more  good  is  ac 
complished,  more  differences  healed,  more  acerbities 
soothed,  and  more  bitterness  subdued  and  softened  by 
it  than  most  people  are  aware  of.  A  true,  genuine 
lawyer  is  the  most  valuable  man  in  any  community. 
He  can  do  more  practical  good  than  a  minister,  be 
cause,  while  he  may  be  just  as  pure,  charitable  and 
religious,  he  knows  men  better,  and  can  judge  better 
how  they  should  be  treated  for  their  own  good.  If  the 
clergy  would  practise  law  a  dozen  years  before  attempt 
ing  to  preach,  they  would  preach  more  efficient  ser 
mons,  and  their  influence  in  our  communities  would  be 
more  commanding.  I  sometimes  wish  I  were  a  lawyer 
myself. 

It  is  not  for  me  to  furnish  the  reasons  why  —  but 
Pink  has  never  before  shone  with  such  a  lustre  as  she 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  259 

has  appeared  in  since  her  father's  failure.  She  has  no 
mother,  and  she  is  to  her  father,  as  he  told  me,  at  once 
daughter,  friend,  and  wife.  She  is  the  bulwark  of  his 
strength  and  safety.  She  infuses  a  courage  into  him 
he  thought  himself  incapable  of.  She  shares  his 
sorrows,  and  dissipates  his  anxieties.  Like  a  true 
woman,  in  a  good  cause,  she  gives  him  her  heart  and 
her  hand,  and  makes  him  hope,  in  spite  of  himself. 
Without  the  least  embarrassment,  so  far  as  she  can,  in 
the  nature  of  things,  she  co-operates  with  Stubs  in  the 
adjustment  of  his  affairs,  and  Pat.  tells  me  she  is 
astonished  at  her  energy  and  character. 

She  is  a  daughter  indeed,  and  if  the  .man  with  the 
corn-colored  gloves  gets  her  for  his  wife,  he  will  get  a 
true  woman.  She  has  never  indicated  herself  before. 
Indeed,  my  theory  is  that  no  woman  is  fairly  tested 
and  discovered  till  she  has  suffered.  Discipline  makes 
a  woman,  as  it  does  a  man  ;  but  in  real  distress  a 
woman  surpasses  a  man.  In  prosperity,  a  woman  will 
be,  oftentimes,  frivolous,  weak,  inert,  and  selfish.  In 
adversity,  she  is  superior  to  a  man.  Where  a  man 
will  break,  she  will  simply  bend,  and,  with  an  admira 
ble  elasticity,  rebound  to  her  place.  Without  women, 
what  weak  fools  we  men  should  be  !  We  call  our 
selves  self-reliant,  but  how  dependent  are  we  upon 
their  sympathy  ! 

We  call  ourselves  brave  ;  but,  in  our  extremities, 
how  do  we  look  to  them  for  courage  !  We  call  our 
selves  energetic  ;  but  how  little  could  we  accomplish 
without  their  aid !  They  are,  indeed,  the  "  better 
half"  of  our  life.  When  we  despond,  they  comfort 
and  sustain  us  ;  —  when  we  break,  and  faint,  and  de- 


260  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

spair,  they  appeal  to  and  evoke  the  hidden  resources  of 
our  nature. 

Stubs  talks  of  Pink  in  the  most  enthusiastic  manner. 
I  begin  to  think  he  is  still  in  love  with  her,  notwith 
standing  all  that  has  occurred.  He  says  he  has  done 
her  much  injustice  ;  and,  in  fact,  from  a  variety  of 
such  remarks,  and  my  own  observation  in  general,  I 
rather  incline  to  the  opinion  that  it  would  be  much  bet 
ter  for  her  to  marry  him,  than  to  marry  the  man  with 
the  corn-colored  gloves. 

You  may  explain  it,  if  you  can,  but  never  was  her 
cheek  ruddier,  her  eye  brighter,  and  her  lip  fresher 
than  it  is  now.  From  the  ashes  of  her  father's  ruin, 
and  her  own  despondency  during  Stubs'  absence,  she 
has  come  up  with  an  extraordinary  recuperativeness. 
Pat.  says  that  she  is  very  happy,  in  spite  of  all  her  un- 
happiness.  What  this  means  I  cannot  tell,  but  I  never 
could  understand  women.  They  are  full  of  contradic 
tions  and  inconsistencies.  Still  1  am  very  glad  Pink 
is  so  bright  and  hopeful,  just  at  this  time,  because, 
consider  how  wretched  her  poor  father  would  be  to  see 
her  depressed  and  down-hearted  !  He  would  break  at 
once. 

As  for  Stubs,  he  seems  like  anything  but  a  man  who 
has  just  lost  most  of  his  property  in  a  lawsuit.  He  is 
calm,  collected,  and  natural,  and  evidently  quite  for 
gets  himself  in Pink  ;  that  is,  in  her  father's 

misfortunes,  and  in  her  as  connected  and  identified 
with  them.  He  is  full  of  charity,  and  does  what  he 

can  to  console  both  father  and daughter.  Pink 

evidently  regards  him  as  an  admirable  lawyer,  and 
defers  unhesitatingly  to  his  counsel  and  directions. 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  261 

As  he  must  now  practise  his  profession  for  a  living, 
T  am  glad  he  has  such  a  case  in  his  hands.  The  result 
of  it  may  affect  his  whole  career.  Who  knows  ? 
Slight  circumstances  make  or  mar  one's  fortunes. 

Meantime,  my  Editor,  the  winter  of  '56  pushes  on 
vigorously.  I  am  told  there  has  been  nothing  like  it 
for  thirty-two  years.  I  tell  Pat.  we  shall  be  ruined  on 
the  coal  question.  Trifleton  House  has  been  sur 
rounded  with  snow  and  ice  for  more  than  six  weeks. 

Inside,  we  manage  to  make  our  thermometers  act 
respectably  ;  but  outside  they  lose  all  their  courage, 
and  are  worse  than  nothing.  They  are  weak  to  such 
a  degree  that  they  can  seldom  get  above  zero,  if  that 
interesting  point  may  be  considered  as  a  degree.  In 
fact,  they  show  no  character  at  all,  and  keep  in  such  a 
dingy,  low,  disreputable  state  that  I  am  becoming  quite 
ashamed  of  them. 

Pat.  thinks  she  sees  indications  of  a  thaw  —  by  and 
by.  She  has  been  seeing  them  for  a  month. 

"  Why,  Trifle,"  says  she,  "  our  January  thaw  hasn't 
come  yet !  " 

I'm  afraid  not,  and  do  you  think  it  ever  will,  my 
Editor  ? 

I  understand  this  is  Leap  Year,  and  I  incline  to  the 
opinion  that  the  January  thaw  aforesaid  has  skipped 
over  our  heads. 

I  gather  from  various  valuable  treatises  that  the 
month  of  February  will  be  a  good  time  in  which  to 
trim  the  Trifleton  grape  vines.  But  how  can  I  do 
that  while  they  are  buried  up  in  two  feet  of  snow,  or 
ice,  rather,  and  what  will  become  of  your  grapes  ? 
Will  you  please  to  inform  me. 


262  ^RIFLETON    PAPERS. 

Prig  keeps  house  all  the  time,  and  wishes  to  know 
daily  when  the  Spring  will  come  ;  for  in  the  Spring  the 
velocipede  grandma  has  promised  him  will  arrive,  and 
he  will  play  in  the  dirt  and  gravel  once  more. 

Ah,  my  Editor,  how  many  weary  hearts  are  yearn 
ing  for  the  Spring  !  Burdened,  and  chilled,  and  frozen 
by  the  winter  of  life,  they  hope  to  be  happier  in  — 
the  Spring.  When  the  Spring  comes,  they  will,  per 
haps,  postpone  their  expectations  of  happiness  till  the 
Summer  ;  when  Summer  comes,  till  the  Autumn  ;  and 
when  Autumn  comes,  till  the  Winter.  And  so  do  they 
subsist  on  hope,  and  hope  alone. 

My  theory  is,  that  we  should  enjoy  what  we  can 
now.  We  havn't  long  to  live  in  this  world,  and  we 
are  too  apt  to  grow  old  in  searching  for  happiness 
such  as  we  can  never  find.  We  are  all  too  fond  of 
living  an  ideal  rather  than  a  real  life.  The  regular  and 
actual  details  of  duty  well  performed  must,  if  anything 
can,  constitute  our  happiness  —  here. 

Item.  —  Last  night  about  eleven  o'clock,  just  as  we 
were  retiring,  our  door-bell  rang  violently,  and  a  mo 
ment  afterwards  Goody  Green  rushed  in,  in  a  state  of 
prodigious  excitement.  The  cold  had  tipped  her  nose 
with  the  color  of  tomatoes,  and  if  1  had  never  seen  her 
before,  I  should  have  regarded  her  as  a  somewhat  sus 
picious  looking  visitor.  She  declared  in  voluble  terms 
that  she  had  called  to  see  me  upon  a  matter  of  the 
most  urgent  importance. 

"  The  happiness  of  two  feller  beings,"  said  she, 
"  Mr.  Trifle,  depends  on  it." 

With  much  solicitude,  and  no  little  anxiety,  I  begged 
her  to  communicate  its  nature,  and  promised  to  do 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  263 

what  I  could  for  her.  "  Promise  me  not  to  tell,  sir, 
no,  not  nobody,"  she  exclaimed,  with  earnestness.  I 
promised. 

Taking  a  letter  from  her  pocket,  she  asked  me  for 
the  address  of  the  man  with  the  corn-colored  gloves. 
Happening  to  know  it,  by  the  merest  accident  in  the 
world,  I  gave  it  to  her  immediately,  and  she  wrote  it 
down  with  her  pencil  in  the  most  precipitate  manner. 
She  then  read  a  letter  she  had  been  writing  him. 

It  was  in  her  own  style  and  language,  but  was  sur 
passingly  eloquent,  it  was  so  full  of  noble  feeling. 
She  wrote  that  she  knew  that  Pink's  heart  was  in  the 
keeping  of  Stubs,  and  had  been  for  a  long  time,  even 
before  her  engagement ;  that  Stubs  was  the  noblest  of 
men,  and  idolized  Pink,  but  was  far  too  generous  ever 
to  tell  her  of  it,  and  thus  embarrass  her  and  make  her 
miserable  ;  that  it  was  right  in  the  sight  of  God  that 
they  should  marry  ;  that,  if  she  married  any  other  man, 
she  would  sacrifice  the  happiness  of  her  life  simply  on 
a  point  of  delicacy  or  honor  ;  and  that  he  would  per 
form  an  act  of  genuine  manliness  if  he  would  come 
immediately  on,  and  release  her  from  an  engagement 
entered  into  under  the  excitement  of  anger  and  hurt 

"ide. 

Poor  Goody  !  The  wedding  day  is  fixed,  and  mar 
riages  have  little  to  do  with  hearts.  What  think  you 
of  life,  serenest  and  most  excellent  of  editors  ? 


264  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 


XXX. 


THE  ARM  CHAIR,  > 

In  the  time  of  the  first  thaw  of  '56.  £ 

IT  has  come  at  last,  that  thaw  which  the  weather- 
wise  prophesied  and  the  snow-sick  hoped  for  in  Janu 
ary.  That  hard  old  warrior,  Winter,  has  got  a  repulse 
at  last.  He  has  been  besieging  us  for  six  weeks,  grow 
ing  more  and  more  bold  and  defiant,  until  we  were 
almost  desperate.  But  he  is  down  now,  and  some  peo 
ple  say  his  back  is  broken.  The  warm  south  wind 
took  the  spirit  out  of  him,  and  the  sun  has  shot  arrows 
through  and  through  his  white  and  shining  armor. 
The  snow  banks  are  turning  into  floods,  and  if  Trifleton 
House  shall  not  be  carried  away  by  a  freshet,  you  may 
congratulate  yourself  and  your  household. 

"  Have  you  ever  read  Ovid's  beautiful  poem  of  the 
Four  Ages  ?  " 

That  is  a  proper  question  for  a  close  student  of  the 
Ledger  like  you,  O  classic  Trifle  !  But  we  do  remem 
ber  that,  far  back  in  the  days  of  our  boyhood,  we 
scanned  and  translated  those  verses  with  no  little  pleas 
ure,  considering  they  were  always  a  task.  We  think 
we  have  never  opened  those  pages  since.  We  are  of 
opinion  that  if  Ovid  lived  now,  or  were  by  some  spirit 
ual  medium  to  express  his  views,  he  would  find  the 
present  an  age  of  mingled  bronze  and  iron,  and  of  gold 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  265 

and  silver  too,  in  one  sense  of  the  words  —  a  mass  of 
glitter  and  base  metals  which  would  confuse  all  his 
former  ideas  of  the  ages,  —  unless,  indeed,  he  looked 
deeper  than  the  surface,  much  deeper,  into  the  crystal 
springs  and  among  the  gems  that  are  hidden  there, 
beneath  the  cold,  hard  exterior. 

"  Who  reviles  lawyers  ?  "  is  another  quaint  question 
in  your  last  letter.  Who  reviles  lawyers  ?  Not.  we, 
certainly,  after  your  praises  of  a  "  real  Christian  law 
yer."  Doubtless  there  are  good  men  who  are  lawyers 
(professionally),  and  good  lawyers  who  are  men.  But 

what  is  a  lawyer  who  is a  lawyer  and  nothing 

else  ?  You  may  have  seen  such,  growing  gray  before 
their  time,  inhaling  and  inspiring  Coke  and  Blackstone, 
pleadings  and  reports,  until  the  real,  warm  blood  of 
humanity  is  deprived  of  vitality,  arid  becomes  a  cold, 
slow  stream,  that  clears  the  brain  but  stupefies  and 
chills  the  heart.  They  look  ever  on  the  dark  side  of 
human  life,  seeing  only  vile  passions,  dishonesty,  or 
meanness,  or  poverty,  which  to  them  is.  both  dishonesty 
and  meanness.  They  are  sceptics  in  honesty,  and  honor, 
and  truthfulness  ;  the  affections  are  unknown  to  them  ; 
sufferings  and  despair  touch  them  not.  Sometimes 
with  noiseless  feet  and  oily  tongues  they  spread  their 
nets  about  the  unsuspecting  unfortunate,  and  sometimes 
drive  a  car  of  Juggernaut,  an  unyielding  mass  of  forms 
and  precedent,  which  they  foolishly  call  "  Justice," 
over  weak  and  despondent  victims. 

And  what  arc  they  socially  ?  They  are  sharp  enough 
intellectually,  and  correct  enough,  morally  —  perhaps. 
But  socially  they  are  cold,  ungenial,  barren  ;  they 
contribute  nothing  to  human  happiness,  and  derive  no 


266  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

happiness  from  others  ;  they  measure  life  and  human 
beings  by  precedents  and  authorities,  and  imagination 
and  hope,  friendship  and  love,  are  always  convicted 
felons  at  the  bar  of  their  opinion. 

These  are  lawyers  who  are  lawyers.  Thank  Heaven  ! 
there  are,  even  in  this  age  of  iron  and  brass,  lawyers 
who  are  men,  who  acknowledge  the  claims  of  humani 
ty,  who  have  hearts,  who,  in  fine,  do  not  leave  their 
Christianity  at  the  church  door,  but  carry  it  into  the 
office  and  the  court  room,  and  into  social  life.  But 
what  proportion  of  "  the  bar,"  think  you,  are  these 
latter  individuals  ? 

But  let  us  not  discuss  such  ungenerous  subjects 
when  we  have  something  of  more  interest  to  communi 
cate. 

A  few  days  since  we  received  our  "  Six  Months  in 
Italy,"  with  a  note  of  the  following  tenor :  (is  not  that 
the  way  you  clerks  or  the  lawyers  express  it  r) 

"  I  trust  my  friend,  Mr. ,  will  excuse  my  long  detention 

of  these  volumes,  and  will  attribute  the  fault  in  some  degree  to 
the  events  of  the  last  few  months  in  our  domestic  affairs.  I  have 
many  thanks  to  return  for  the  pleasure  which  I  have  taken  in 
reading  them  —  a  pleasure  which  will  be  the  more  fondly  though 
sadly  remembered,  because  it  is  the  last  which  I  can  so  enjoy. 
I  am  very  grateful  to  you,  also,  for  your  kindness  on  other 

occasions.     With  much  regard  for  yourself  and  M ,  and  a 

kiss  for  Eompy-Dompy,  I  shall  hope  ever  to  be  counted  your 
friend,  BEL  HARD." 

c  What  means  this  note  and  the  peculiar  tone  of  its 
expression,'  thought  we,  as  we  passed  it  over  the  table. 
Our  doubts  were  soon  settled,  however,  by  the  infor 
mation,  which  women  always  have  in  such  cases,  that 
Bel  was  to  be  married  in  a  day  or  two  to  the  Hon.  Mr. 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  167 

Weed.  The  wedding  was  to  be  very  private,  —  no 
company,  no  parade,  no  levee,  no  calls,  —  but  a  mar 
riage  at  church  and  a  departure  on  a  long  journey. 
And  it  was  all  to  gratify  Bel,  who  would  not  listen  to 
her  mother's  wish  for  a  "  splendid  wedding." 

This  was  rather  sudden,  but  it  .was  agreed  upon  at 
Washington,  hence  Madame  Hard  had  hurried  home 
somewhat  unexpectedly,  and  the  Hon.  Mr.  Weed  had 
followed  to  secure  his  prize.  That  is  the  information 
which  feminine  curiosity  obtained,  and  are  we  not, 
therefore,  bound  to  record  it  ? 

"  Poor  Umber !  that  is  the  end  of  your  dream," 
thought  we,  and  we  fell  into  a  reverie  on  the  subject  of 
the  artist's  love,  his  folly,  his  talents,  his  pictures  of 
Bel,  his  genuine  worth  and  manhood.  We  had  not 
concluded  whether  to  pity  him  or  to  wish  him  joy  at 
this  abrupt  termination  of  his  idle  hopes,  if  he  enter 
tained  such,  before  he  was  yet  more  deeply  involved 
in  the  meshes.  And  we  were  in  doubt  what  to  think 
of  Bel.  We  were  approaching  our  conclusions,  how 
ever,  when  a  ring  at  the  door  disturbed  us,  and  another 
note  was  placed  in  our  hands.  It  read  thus  : 

"Madame  Hard  requests  the  favor  of  Mr. 's  company 

this  evening,  to  attend  to  the  execution  of  certain  legal  instru 
ments.  Madame  II  's  solicitor  informs  her  that  the  attendance 

of  a  magistrate  is  necessary,  and  Mr. 's  presence  would  be 

most  desirable.     The  bearer  will  await  Mr. 's  convenience." 

We  were  a  little  disturbed.  Dressing-gown  and 
slippers,  the  easy  chair  and  Macaulay's  fourth  volume 
promised  a  quiet  and  comfortable  evening,  to  say  noth 
ing  of  the  company  so  agreeable  to  our  domestic  hab 
its.  But  Madame  Hard's  request  appeared  somewhat 


268  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

of  the  imperative  sort.  We  looked  out  the  door,  and 
found  Abel's  span  of  bays,  with  a  light  sleigh,  await 
ing  us,  a  clear  night  and  a  young  moon  ;  so  we  hesi 
tated  no  longer,  but  made  ready  and  departed.  Abel's 
fleet  bays  made  our  journey  a  brief  one. 

In  the  parlor  at  -the  mansion,  we  found  Madame 
Hard,  who  introduced  us  to  the  Hon.  Mr.  Weed  and 
her  solicitor,  Mr.  Fee.  The  Hon.  Mr.  Weed's  man 
ners  were  gentlemanly  in  form,  but  exhibited  none  of 
the  genuine  courtesy  which  comes  from  the  heart. 
Have  you  ever  marked  the  difference,  Trifle  ?  We 
observed  his  face  more  narrowly  than  ever  before. 
The  freshness  of  youth  must  long  since  have  departed, 
and  unsubdued  passion  assumed  the  place  of  manly 
vigor  and  high  purpose,  and  we  thought  there  was 
something  sinister  in  the  glance  of  the  eye.  But  all 
this  must  have  been  imagined,  for  how  could  Bel  Hard 
become  the  wife  of  such  a  man  as  we  saw  in  the  Hon. 
Mr.  Weed  ? 

Mr.  Fee  is  a  man  of  note  in  his  profession,  a  man  of 
shrewdness  and  probity.  Past  the  middle  age  and  gray 
haired,  his  face  bore  the  marks  of  intellect,  but  no 
great  degree  of  benevolence.  Yet  there  was  something 
kindly  in  his  eye,  and  there  was  a  geniality  about  him 
which  showed  him  not  of  the  class  of  lawyers  of  which 
we  just  now  wrote.  He  had  been  their  guardian  during 
the  minority  of  Bel  and  Abel,  and  he  informed  us  that 
we  were  called  upon  to  attend  the  execution  of  a  mar 
riage  settlement  between  Bel  and  the  Hon.  Mr.  Weed. 

We  expected  it.  Nevertheless  the  information  wasn't 
pleasant.  It  was  another  step  towards  the  end, —  the 
end  of  our  interest  in  Bel.  We  expressed  a  regret  to 
Madame,  that  Abel  was  not  present  at  this  time. 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  269 

"Abel  is  wayward,  and  pays  no  heed  to  our  letters 
except  to  say  that  he  cannot  return." 

A  slight  look  of  vexation  passed  over  Madame's 
features  as  we  spoke  and  she  replied.  It  signified 
more  than  she  uttered.  We  still  wondered  why  the 
approaching  nuptials  had  not  called  forth  some  expres 
sion  from  Abel,  —  a  strong  dissent,  we  had  hoped. 
But  Madame  took  up  that  fertile  topic  of  conversation, 
the  weather,  and  while  she  was  speaking  of  '  deep 
snows  '  and  '  extreme  cold,'  Bel  Hard  came  into  the 
room. 

She  was  very  pale,  and  we  thought  her  eye  wore 
the  cold  and  languid  expression  of  old.  She  greeted 
Mr.  Fee  cordially,  and  responded  pleasantly  to  his 
short  sentences,  till  he  rallied  her  on  the  business  of 
the  evening,  saying: 

"  So  you  could  not  give  me  the  slip,  Bel,  as  you  do 
everybody  else.  You  find  me  almost  as  important  — :' 

He  stopped  suddenly,  for  Bel  looked  in  his  face 
with  a  look  of  sad  and  earnest  entreaty,  which  mani 
festly  made  him  forget  what  he  would  have  said,  or 
regret  what  he  had  said.  The  expression  of  his  face 
changed  to  one  of  inquiry,  and  his  eye  seemed  to  read 
an  answer  in  Bel's  face,  for  he  said  nothing  more,  but 
uttered  a  half  suppressed 

"  Ugh  ! " 

We  found  that  was  a  frequent  expression  with  him 
on  all  occasions. 

Bel  next  turned  to  us,  and  with  a  salutation  which 
seemed  something  more  than  formal  —  almost  affec 
tionate.  We  then  saw  that  what  we  had  mistaken  for 
a  cold,  languid  expression  of  her  eye,  was  in  truth  a 


270  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

deep  sadness,  that  the  signs  of  tears  had  not  disap 
peared.  She  spoke  to  us  in  a  somewhat  low  tone, 
and  we  saw  the  Hon.  Mr.  Weed  watching  her  from 
the  opposite  side  of  the  room,  where  he  was  seated 
with  Madame. 

"  Have  you  heard  from  my  brother  ?  " 

We  replied  that  we  had  not  since  we  had  delivered 
to  her  one  of  his  letters. 

"  Has  he  received  a  letter  ?  " 

"Umber?" 

"  Yes."     It  was  a  half  stifled  "  yes.1' 

"  He  has  not  mentioned  it.  Indeed  he  has  scarcely 
been  seen  of  late." 

"  He  is  not  sick  ?  " 

"  No  —  not  physically." 

Bel's  pale  cheek  was  slightly  tinged  as  she  saw  we 
had  noticed  the  tone  of  her  question,  and  she  felt  the 
meaning  of  our  reply,  but  she  spoke  quickly, — 

"  I  wish  Abel  were  here." 

Evidently  it  was  an  earnest  wish,  it  was  so  deeply 
uttered,  as  if  from  the  heart. 

"  Have  you  written  to  him  ?  " 

"  After  reading  the  letter  you  brought,  I  wrote  to 
him,  telling  him  my  —  unhappincss.  I  have  received 
no  answer." 

Tears  filled  her  eyes  and  fell  upon  her  pale  cheek. 
She  spoke  in  a  low  tone  still,  but  there  was  a  severe 
look  in  the  Hon.  Mr.  Weed's  eye  as  he  watched  her.. 
Of  course  she  had  no  right  to  speak  confidentially  and 
with  feeling  to  another  than  himself. 

It  matters  not  how  we  expressed  our  sympathy  with 
Bel.  It  is  sufficient  that  we  witnessed  again  that  look 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  271 

of  mingled  sadness  and  gratitude  which  we  had  seen 
before,  and  which  dwells  in  our  memory  ever.  There 
was  not  time  for  many  words,  for  Madame  Hard  arose 
and  proposed  that  we  should  walk  into  the  library  to 
attend  to  the  business  of  the  evening.  Bel  took  our 
arm  and  we  followed  the  other  three  into  that  cheerful 
library,  where  the  Cannel,  flaming  and  hissing,  shed 
its  ruddy  glow  over  the  room. 

Mr.  Fee  quietly  unfolded  his  papers,  and  spreading 
one  on  the  table,  said  : 

"  You  know  the  contents,  Bel.  Here  is  the  place 
for  your  signature." 

Bel's  agitation  was  palpable  as  she  seated  herself 
and  took  the  proffered  pen.  She  gazed  at  the  paper 
intently,  as  if  she  were  examining  its  contents  with 
professional  scrutiny.  Some  clause  must  have  been 
unintelligible,  judging  from  her  long  and  fixed  look  at 
it,  and  the  whole  instrument  was  evidently  wanting  in 
clearness,  so  much  time  did  she  take  in  looking  over 
it,  although  she  had  read  it  before.  Madame  and  the 
Hon.  Mr.  Weed  grew  impatient,  and  after  a  jest  or 
two  between  them  on  Bel's  delay,  Madame  spoke  to 
her. 

"  Come,  Bel,  we  shall  become  fatigued  standing 
here  while  you  study  the  paper.  Others  desire  their 
turn." 

Bel  started  a  little,  and  a  tear  fell  upon  the  paper. 
That  was  a  very  improper  seal  for  a  marriage  settle 
ment.  Mr.  Fee  and  we  saw  it,  (he  uttered  another 
suppressed  "  Ugh  !  ")  Madame  and  the  Hon.  didn't, — 
or  noticed  it  not. 

"  Come,  Bel,  sign  the  paper." 


272  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

"  I  cannot !  "  Then  fell  more  seals  upon  the  in 
strument. 

"  Cannot  !  " 

Both  Madame  and  the  Hon.  Mr.  Weed  spoke  ;  but 
the  tone  of  the  latter,  half  angry  and  half  scornful, 
alone  was  heeded  by  Bel.  She  rose  suddenly,  and 
turned  towards  the  Hon.  with  a  glance  as  scornful  as 
his  tone.  It  was  the  proud,  spirited  Bel  Hard  once 
more,  and  for  a  moment  her  eye  flashed  fire,  even 
through  tears. 

"I  will  not!" 

She  threw  the  pen  down.  Madame  and  the  Hon. 
Mr.  Weed  were  startled  —  stupefied  for  a  moment ; 
and  the  one  was  vexed,  and  the  other  was  flushed  with 
anger. 

"  But  to-morrow,  Bel  ?  " 

"  To-morrow  !  " 

She  uttered  it  with  passionate  grief,  and  sunk  with 
hysterical  sobs  into  a  chair.  Madame  Hard  spoke  in 
a  tone  of  severity. 

"  Bel !  what  folly  is  this  !  " 

But  Bel  was  insensible  to  her  words,  or  the  mutter- 
ings  of  the  Hon.  Mr.  Weed,  which  sounded  much  like 
oaths.  She  had  fainted,  which  being  seen  by  Madame, 
maternal  solicitude  succeeded  to  anger.  Restoratives 
were  applied,  and  the  usual  confusion  of  such  occa 
sions  followed.  Domestics  were  called,  and  finally 
Bel  was  removed  to  her  room,  and  the  library  was  left 
to  the  Hon.  Mr.  Weed,  the  solicitor,  and  ourself. 

The  solicitor  seated  himself  before  the  grate,  and 
stirred  the  Cannel,  saying  to  himself: 

"  Ugh  !  I  am  glad  of  it." 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  273 

The  Hon.  Mr.  Weed  walked  the  room  fiercely,  and 
there  was  no  doubt  now  that  some  of  his  mutterings 
were  oaths.  Once  he  approached  us  with  a  lowering 
look,  and  said  : 

"  Perhaps  you  can  explain  this,  sir  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  sir,  the  explanation  would  seem  not  very 
difficult." 

"  And  what  is  it,  since  you  are  in  the  secret  ?  " 

"  What  is  perfectly  evident,  that  Miss  Hard  does 
not  wish  to  be  married  to-morrow." 

Mr.  Fee  looked  up  from  the  grate,  and  probably 
supported  my  assertion  with  a  glance.  The  Hon.  Mr. 
Weed  glared  at  us  a  moment,  then,  sitting  down  at  the 
table,  hastily  wrote  a  note,  directed  it  to  Madame  Hard, 
rung  the  bell  and  ordered  his  carriage.  It  was  all  done 
with  remarkable  energy,  even  to  the  suppressed  ex 
clamation,  as  he  went  out : 

"  Fool ! " 

The  sound  of  his  sleigh-bells  had  hardly  died  away 
when  Madame  Hard  again  entered  the  room.  She 
was  surprised  but  manifestly  relieved  by  not  finding  the 
Hon.  gentleman  there.  Bel  had  revived,  but  was  not 
herself.  So  said  Madame.  But  we  surmised  that  Bel 
ivas  herself,  and  was  no  longer  to  be  unresistingly  led 
to  her  own  misery.  The  letter  was  handed  to  Madame, 
and  we  departed. 

"  A  better  night's  work  than  I  anticipated,"  said  Mr. 
Fee,  as  he  drove  away  from  the  mansion. 

Postscriptum.     Did  we  mention  a  thaw  ?     Did  we 
anticipate  freshets  ?     Verily,  with  the  mercury  sinking 
below  zero,  the  waters  won't  rise  .very  high.     Winter 
18 


274  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

is  conqueror  again,  and  has  quite  got  his  spirits  up. 
Shrimp  has  been  running  back  through  the  long  years 
of  his  experience,  and  he  don't  think  there  ever  was 
anything  quite  equal  to  this  winter,  take  it  all  in  all. 
He  is  under  serious  apprehensions  that  the  ponds 
and  rivers  may  freeze  quite  solid,  and  destroy  all  the 
fish. 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  275 


XXXI. 


TRIFLETON  HOUSE,  > 

Still  in  the  tough  Winter  of  '56.  $ 

THE  Winter's  back  is  by  no  means  broken.  Ask 
Pat.! 

"  Well,  Trifle,"  said  she  yesterday  morning,  "  I 
never  did  see  such  weather  (that's  what  she  said  — 
'  see,')  in  my  life.  There's  the  cistern  frozen  up,  and 
the  girls  can't  wash.  We  havn't  a  drop  of  water.  A 
pretty  cistern,  indeed  !  and  as  for  that  pump,  which 
you  have  praised  so  much  —  almost  as  much  as  you 
have  the  cistern — it  won't  work  at  all.  It's  sucked, 
or  something  ! " 

When  you  consider  that  this  cistern  was  built  after 
serious  consultation  with  the  gentleman  who  undertook 
the  repairs  of  Trifleton  House  for  rne,  and  the  argu 
ment  was  advanced  by  him  that  a  nice,  new  brick 
cistern,  with  pipes,  and  an  iron  pump,  &c.,  though 
somewhat  expensive,  would  be  invaluable,  (which  said 
argument  met  the  hearty  concurrence  of  the  mason 
he  had  with  him  while  renovating  the  chimneys,  fire 
places,  and  so  on  of  Trifleton  House,) —  and  that  I  have, 
as  indicated  by  Pat.'s  speech,  been  rather  disposed  to 
congratulate  myself  upon  my  superior  sagacity  in 
having  it  built  according  to  his  suggestions,  you  will 
not  be  surprised  that  I  was  a  little  indignant  at  its  pre- 


276  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

suming  to  freeze.  I  addressed  a  note  to  the  gentleman 
alluded  to,  requesting  him  to  immediately  look  into  the 
state  of  things,  and  added,  with  some  tartness,  that  the 
pipes  couldn't  have  been  fixed  properly  in  the  begin 
ning,  or  some  equally  sharp  thing,  which  I  intended  as 
a  "  crusher."  He  came  to  Trifleton  House  with  his 
men,  and  while  Pat.  looked  on,  they  tore  up  the  floor, 
and  put  salt  in  the  pump,  and  tried  in  every  way  to 
melt  this  obdurate,  cold-blooded,  frigid  cistern. 

"  To  think  of  its  assurance  to  freeze  so  !  "  said 
Pat. 

The  relentless  cistern,  in  nowise  discomfited  at  this 
remark,  maintained  the  most  imperturbable  indifference. 
Through  salt  and  through  fire  it  refused  to  yield  any 
water.  The  men  were  becoming  wearied,  and  Pat.  was, 
I  think,  getting  a  little  out  of  patience  (at  least  I  should 
say  so  were  she  ever  guilty  of  such  a  thing),  when  it 
occurred  to  some  one  that  they  would  better  go  into 
the  garden  and  lift  off  the  cover  of  the  cistern. 

They  did  so,  and  mirabile  dictu,  the  bricks  looked 
very  nice  and  clean,  as  if  they  had  just  been  polished 
down  by  sand  paper,  but  they  had  also  an  exceedingly 
dry  and  thirsty  look.  There  wasn't  a  drop  of  water- 

But  then  a  cistern  has  no  right  to  freeze,  even  if  it 
has  no  water.  That's  the  way  I  argued  to  Pat.,  and 
—  ifs  so. 

The  affairs  of  Pink's  father  are  brightening  under 
the  management  of  Stubs.  He  has  nearly  completed 
for  him  a  composition  with  the  creditors,  who,  it  seems, 
are  willing  to  accept  fifty  cents  on  the  dollar  as  a  full 
discharge  of  their  claims.  This  will  leave  him  in 
tolerably  comfortable  circumstances,  and  give  him  an 
opportunity  to  immediately  resume  his  business. 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  277 

He  has  received  a  rebuke,  though,  which  he  will 
not  soon  forget ;  and  if  it  shall  make  him  more  circum 
spect,  and  teach  him  that  the  mere  accumulation  of 
wealth  is  a  small  part  of  the  object  and  end  of  life,  and 
shall  purify  and  elevate  his  nature,  at  the  same  time 
that  it  humbles  it,  his  failure  will  be  of  no  great  conse 
quence,  in  my  judgment. 

There  are  three  things  of  capital  consequence  in  a 
man's  career,  the  first  and  the  most  important  of  which 
is  his  moral  education  and  development ;  next,  his  in 
tellectual,  which  is,  indeed,  in  some  sense,  identical  or 
allied  with  his  moral,  and  lastly,  his  pursuit  of  wealth, 
within  reasonable  limits. 

If  this  order  be  not  practically  reversed  in  our  day 
and  generation,  to  a  very  considerable  extent  at  least, 
then  I  am  by  no  means  a  shrewd  observer. 

Hence,  as  Goody  Green,  or  a  person  of  large  faith 
would  argue,  are  reverses  of  fortune,  which  seem  so 
inscrutable  to  most  of  us.  They  are  the  necessities 
of  Providence  to  make  men  better,  even  against  their 
will. 

Pink's  father,  like  the  majority  of  his  kind,  in  simi 
lar  cases,  labors  under  the  idea  that,  while  he  himself 
can  bear  the  change  of  his  condition,  she  will  repine 
and  suffer  under  it.  So  little  does  he  know  women, 
with  all  their  inconsistencies. 

He  has  exhibited  the  usual  quantity  of  weakness  on 
her  account,  though  something,  confessedly,  is  to  be 
set  down  to  a  father's  anxiety. 

He  remarked  to  Stubs  that  he  felt  quite  ashamed 
that  she  was  about  to  carry  no  larger  dowry  to  the  man 
with  the  corn-colored  gloves. 


278  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

"  To  think  of  my  daughter's  going  to  live  in  the 
Fifth  Avenue  of  York,  and  marry  a  man  of  wealth  and 
standing  in  society,  with  no  possibility  of  an  ante 
nuptial  settlement  such  as  he  will  undoubtedly  expect. 
It's  too  ridiculous  and  mortifying  !  " 

I  have  given  you  his  exact  words,  as  Stubs  told  it  to 
me. 

I  replied,  "  Bah  !  "  arid  I  believe,  even,  "  pshaw  !  " 
in  which  opinion  Stubs  concurred. 

He  added,  also,  very  earnestly,  and  his  voice  trem 
bled  as  he  spoke  : 

"  I  do  not  think  she  cares  to  marry  a  rich  man. 
She  has  tested  the  value  of  money,  and  its  uses.  She 
is  evidently  tired  of  ostentation.  Glitter  has  lost  its 
charms  for  her.  She  seems  to  like  only  what  is  real." 

"  She  has  passed  through  a  severe  ordeal,"  I  ob 
served. 

"  Yes,  and  with  credit.  She  is  a  true  woman,  and 
I  hope  she  will  be  happy  in  her  marriage." 

"  She  will  !  "  said  I,  emphatically,  lighting  a  cigar, 
and  handing  him  one. 

I  generally  light  my  own  cigar  first,  and  then  hold 
the  match  or  lighter  for  my  friend  ;  for  I  have  dis 
covered  that  otherwise  I  am  apt  to  burn  my  fingers 
while  he  is  dawdling  and  biting  the  end  off  his  cigar, 
or  sticking  his  knife  through  it,  or  some  such  thing. 
He  can  do  that  while  I  am  lighting  my  own  cigar,  and 
I  know  just  how  long  a  match  will  burn.  My  skill  in 
this  particular  is  the  result  of  careful  calculation  and 
experience.  He  sees  the  match  getting  most  burnt  out, 
and  he  stirs  himself  at  once  ;  whereas,  give  him  his 
own  time,  and  he  will  keep  you  waiting  until  you 


TEIFLETON   PAPERS.  279 

burn  your  fingers.  Practice,  and  you  will  become  an 
adept. 

We  puffed  in  silence  for  some  time,  when  Stubs 
finally  began  to  talk  of  his  case  at  Washington,  and 
the  loss  of  his  property  under  it. 

It  seems  he  is  now  worth,  to  use  an  absurd  phrase, 
about  five  thousand  dollars.  All  the  rest  of  his  prop 
erty  is  gone  forever. 

"  But,"  said  he,  "  I  never  felt  so  rich  before  in  my 
life.  I  have  now  something  to  work  for,  and  I  intend 
to  work.  I  mean  to  take  and  make  opportunities.  I 
am  resolved  to  make  my  mark." 

All  this  is  very  well ;  but  I  have  heard  young  men 
talk  so  before.  However,  I  have  strong  hopes  of 
Stubs.  He  has  capacity  enough,  which  is  the  main 
thing,  and  the  sharp  spur  of  necessity  will  goad  him 
to  effort,  even  though  he  should  occasionally  falter. 
We  shall  see. 

Since  this  conversation,  which  occurred  some  even 
ings  since,  Stubs  and  Pink  have  had  an  interview  of  a 
very  peculiar  character.  Pink  told  Pat.  of  it,  under 
strict  injunctions  of  secrecy.  Pat.,  for  that  reason 
probably,  told  me  of  it,  and  under  a  similar  injunction  ; 
and  I  now,  therefore,  tell  you  of  it,  in  the  same  fashion. 
I  think  it  likely  you  will  have  the  assurance  to  publish 
it  in  your  paper  ;  for  I  have  observed  that  people  who 
are  requested  not  to  divulge  a  secret,  generally  do. 

When  you  wish  to  have  anything  kept  very  pri 
vately,  never  say  to  those  to  whom  you  confide  it, 
"  you  musn't  tell ! "  When  you  say  this,  it  becomes 
worth  mentioning,  you  perceive.  It  becomes  invested 
with  a  mystery,  at  once.  What  you  don't  wish  to  be 


280  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

told  by  others,  refrain  from  telling  yourself;  or  at 
least,  when  you  tell  it,  impose  no  injunction  of  secrecy 
respecting  it ! 

Stubs,  it  seems,  was  sitting  in  the  library  of  Pink's 
father,  jagged  and  wearied  over  certain  papers  he  had 
been  examining,  when  she  happened  to  enter  the  room. 
She  was  struck  with  his  pale  face,  and  anxious  cast 
of  countenance  at  once,  and  asked  him  if  he  were  not 
well. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  said  he,  smiling ;  "  I  am  only  tired  a 
a  little,  and  my  head  aches." 

"  Have  you  these  headaches  so  often  as  you  had 
formerly  ?  " 

"  No,  only  when  I  am  excited." 

"  You  are  too  assiduous  in  my  father's  affairs.  I 
hope  you  will  give  yourself  more  rest.  I  cannot  bear 
to  see  you  so  anxious.  You  will  wear  yourself  out. 
You  are  too  kind  and  devoted,  and  we  can  never 
be  sufficiently  grateful  for  all  you  have  done  and  are 
doing." 

A  proud  and  generous  man  dislikes  to  be  thanked  ; 
and,  as  a  look  of  pain  passed  over  his  face,  he  re 
marked  that  he  had  done  no  more  than  any  one  would 
have  done  in  the  same  circumstances,  and  added  : 

"  I  was  examining  into  my  own  affairs  at  the  mo 
ment,  and  not  those  of  your  father,  dear  Pink." 

With  a  passionate  burst  of  feeling,  she  could  not 
restrain,  she  exclaimed : 

"  We  have  all  the  while  selfishly  occupied  your 
time  and  interest  in  regard  to  ourselves,  without  once 
considering  that  you  needed  our  most  affectionate  sym 
pathy.  Can  you  forgive  me  ?  "  said  she,  extending 
her  hand.  "  I  have  treated  you  very  ungenerously." 


TRIFLETON    TAPEHS.  281 

She  was  in  no  fainting  condition  now,  and  he  had 
not  just  met  her  upon  his  arrival  home,  after  a  pro 
tracted  absence.  Besides,  he  was  in  her  father's  house, 
in  a  mere  professional  capacity.  He  shuddered,  and 
said,  somewhat  proudly  and  coldly,  without  taking  her 
hand  : 

"  You  have  doubtless  a  right  to  address  me  thus  ; 
but  I  am  not  aware  that  I  have  made  any  complaint 
of  you.  Still,  I  am  quite  ready  to  say  that  I  forgive 
you,  if  you  desire  it ;  but  I  have  nothing,  really,  to 
forgive." 

"  And  is  this  all  ?  Have  I  wholly  forfeited  your 
affection,  then,  which  was  once  so  truly  mine  ?  Am  I 
so  unworthy  ?  " 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she  spoke,  and  she 
turned  her  face  away  from  him. 

"  Can  it  be  possible  that  you  are  trifling  with  me 
still  ?  "  said  he,  as  if  deliberating  upon  the  selection 
and  meaning  of  his  words.  "  Will  there  never  be  an 
end  ?  Why  speak  to  me  of  affection  ?  Such  lan 
guage  is  unnecessary.  Whatever  may  be,  or  may 
have  been,  once,  my  affection  for  you,  I  have  no  right 
to  receive  or  demand  your  affection  for  myself,  and 
you  —  pardon  me  for  the  remark,  but  you  force  me  to 
it  —  have  no  right  to  grant  it." 

"  You  are  mistaken.  I  have  a  right,  but  I  have  no 
need  to  avail  myself  of  it  now,"  said  she,  sobbing 
vehemently,  and  wholly  losing  her  self-control.  "  I 
have  always  loved  you ;  but  my  love  is  neither  worth 
giving  nor  receiving.  Alas  !  how  I  am  punished  ! 
but  bless  him,  Father!"  she  continued,  lifting  her 
arms  to  heaven,  and  gazing  upwards  with  streaming 
eyes,  "  not  for  my  wretched  sake,  but  for  his  own  ! " 


282  TRIFLETON   PAPERS. 

Then  she  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  wept 
bitterly. 

So  she  told  it  to  Pat.,  and  Pat.  told  it  to  me. 

He  stood  and  gazed  at  her,  like  one  abstracted,  and 
utterly  confounded.  Had  she  no  self-respect  ?  Was 
this  real,  or  was  it  all  a  dream  ?  Where  was  he  ? 
Could  this  be  Pink  ?  Was  he  himself?  Did  he  hear 
aright,  in  tones  of  tenderest  and  most  touching  pathos, 
"  I  have  always  loved  you." 

An  electric  thought  shot  through  him,  burning  him 
like  fire,  and  he  asked,  like  one  whose  whole  exist 
ence  hung  upon  the  response, 

"  Are  you  not  bound  to  him  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Have  you  not  promised  ?  " 

"  No." 

Then  the  sweet  voices  of  the  past  seemed  to  address 
his  soul,  and  in  his  fancy,  he  wandered  back  to  the 
days  of  his  hope  and  his  happiness.  But  this  was 
mere  weakness.  Life  was  real,  and  as  he  recollected 
what  he  had  suffered  since  those  days,  he  thought  how 
dangerous  it  would  be  to  be  too  sanguine  again,  and 
he  said,  distrustfully  : 

"  I  do  not  understand  you.  I  have  been  otherwise 
informed,  and  have  acted  upon  my  information." 

"  Read,"  said  she,  u  and  judge  for  yourself." 

She  handed  him  a  letter.  It  was  her  answer  to  the 
offer  of  the  man  with  the  corn-colored  gloves.  It  was 
as  follows  : 

"  I  am  obliged  for  the  honor  of  your  proposals.  I  will  accept 
them  —  conditionally.  My  heart  has  always  been,  as  I  have 
supposed,  another's.  We  have  quarrelled.  He  is  nothing  to  me 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  283 

now.  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  disguises,  and  you  may  consider 
me  bound  to  you,  if  you  desire  it,  for  the  space  of  three  months. 
I  shall  examine  and  test  myself  in  the  meantime,  and  if  I  dis 
cover  that  my  affection  for  you  is  not  sufficiently  strong  to  war 
rant  the  risking  my  happiness,  which  is,  like  my  honor,  in  my 
own  keeping,  and  in  regard  to  hazarding  which  I  must  be  my 
own  judge,  I  shall  frankly  tell  you  so,  and  ask,  and  expect  to  be 
released  from  my  engagement.  Upon  these  terms,  and  these 
only,  I  am  willing  to  accept  your  proposals,  for  which  I  am  much 
indebted.  With  respect,  &c." 

He  read  the  letter  through,  as  a  condemned  man 
would  read  his  pardon. 

"  The  time  of  the  probation  is  past,"  he  said,  at 
length,  "  and  —  " 

"  I  am  wholly  free  once  more." 

And  this  strong  man,  Stubs,  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands,  and  the  large  tears  rolled  from  his  eyes,  as  in 
the  days  of  his  boyhood.  He  was  a  child  in  the 
presence  of  the  woman  that  he  loved.  She  went  and 
kneeled  involuntarily  before  him,  and  took  his  hand 
in  both  her  own,  and  kissed  it,  and  asked  him  to  for 
give  her. 

He  forgave  her. 

$jid  they  prayed  together,  (not  in  words,)  and  the 
holy  spirit  of  God  fell  upon  them,  and  blessed  them, 
and  they  were  both  purified  and  humbled. 

So  Pink  told  it  to  Pat.,  and  so  Pat.  told  it  to  me. 

And  they  twined  their  arms  together,  and  their  lips 
met,  and  she  lay  her  head  upon  his  breast,  when 

Pink's  father  entered  the  room. 

He  started,  but  Pink  rushed  into  his  arms,  and 
cried, 

"  You  know  all,  dear  father.     I  love  him  —  idolize 


284  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

him  —  almost  worship  him,  as  I  told  you  ;  and  (jubi 
lantly)  he  loves  me,  too." 

And  she  went  back  and  nestled  in  his  arms  again, 
with  all  the  eagerness  and  simplicity  of  a  child.  And 
Pink's  father  placed  his  hands  upon  the  head  of  each 
of  them,  and,  with  the  tears  now  in  his  eyes,  said  : 

"  The  good  God  bless  you,  my  children  ! " 

"  Well,  Pat,"  said  I,  knocking  my  ashes  off  my 
cigar,  "  I  don't- see  but  what  Pink  really  has  a  heart." 

"  I  guess  she  Aas,"  said  she,  (it's  exactly  what  she 
said  —  "  guess,")  rather  indignantly,  as  it  seemed  to 
me,  "  and  so  has  he.  He  wrote  a  very  handsome 
letter  to  Pink,  as  soon  as  he  got  Goody  Green's  letter. 
This  was  before  Pink  wrote  to  him  at  all,  and  (with 
great  volubility)  he's  coming  on,  and  —  as  soon  as 

Goody,  and  —  before  Pink  had  time  —  and hark  ! 

Patience  !  there's  that  baby  again.  He  always 

wants  me.  Kate  can't  — " 

"  I  shouldn't  suppose  she  could  —  naturally,"  said 
I,  but  she  was  off,  and  didn't  hear  me. 

My  opinion  is  that  Pat.  likes  that  baby.  Everything 
has  to  yield  to  him.  Yesterday  he  exhibited  two  teeth, 
which  circumstance  she  thinks  is  extremely  wonderful, 
and  when  she  discovered  them,  she  nearly  choked  him 
with  caresses,  and  said  she  wanted  to  "  eat  him  up," 
the  cannibal  ! 

It's  true,  for  I  heard  her  say  it,  and  so  did  Prig. 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  285 


XXXII. 


THE  ARM  CHAIR, 
In  the  last  days  of  the  Winter  Months. 

FEBRUARY  is  passing,  Trifle,  and  notwithstanding 
Time  has  lent  it  an  additional  day,  it  will  soon  be 
gone.  But  winter  seems  loath  to  depart  with  it.  A 
bright  sun  and  softer  winds  for  a  few  days  have  made 
large  draughts  upon  his  accumulated  wealth,  and  there 
are  some  signs  that  it  will,  in  time,  be  exhausted.  But 
he  clutches  and  guards  it  like  all  misers,  and  in  spite 
of  his  age,  he  holds  on  bravely.  He  must  be  con 
quered,  at  last,  however,  and  that,  too,  by  gentleness 
and  smiles.  Even  his  hard  nature  will  finally  yield  to 
these,  which  are,  after  all,  the  most  potent  weapons 
for  a  vic'ory,  and  he  will  depart  to  prepare  for  another 
campaigi^  in  those  regions  where  he  reigns  perpetual 
king.  Let  him  go.  He  has  taught  us  something  ;  he 
has  brought  us  some  treasures.  But  we  can  look 
forward  to  a  gentler  reign  with  hopes  of  something 
better. 

Verily,  the  winter  has  taught  our  friends  something. 
Madame  Hard  and  Bel,  Umber  and  even  the  Hon.  Mr. 
Weed,  who  has  departed  with  his  experiences  for  a 
more  genial  latitude.  At  least,  it  is  supposed  that  he 
is  gone,  for  he  has  not  been  at  the  mansion  since  the 


286  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

eventful  evening  which  snatched  from  him  his  prize. 
Let  him  go,  too.  He  was  a  darker  winter  to  one  heart 
than  the  natural  winter  has  been  to  the  earth.  Even 
Madame  is  incensed  against  him,  now,  for  the  note 
which  he  left  for  her  was  insulting. 

& 

A  few  days  after  that  evening  we  looked  into  Um 
ber's  studio.  He  was  sitting  in  deep  thought,  and 
looked  sad.  After  responding  to  our  hail,  he  said, 
abruptly : 

"  I  am  going  to  Europe  again." 

"  Why,  you  havn't  been  at  home  six  months." 

"  I  wish  I  had  not  come  at  all." 

"  But  why  go  back,  now  ?  " 

"  I  have  several  commissions  to  copy  paintings  in 
the  Louvre  and  at  Florence.  Besides,  I " 

He  hesitated. 

"  You  have  not  been  fortunate  here.  The  Hon.  Mr. 
Weed,  probably,  did  not  pay  for  his  picture  before  he 
left." 

Umber  looked  at  us  doubtfully.  He  did  not  know 
what  had  transpired  at  the  mansion,  so  we  related  faith 
fully  what  we  had  seen,  heard  and  done  there.  He 
listened  to  us  in  silence,  but  he  was  deeply  moved,  and 
notwithstanding  his  usual  control  over  his  feelings,  his 
face  expressed  both  delight  and  sadness.  He  said 
nothing,  even  when  we  finished  our  recital,  but,  plac 
ing  the  portrait  of  Bel  on  the  easel,  he  deliberately 
painted  it  over  till  Bel's  fair  face  and  cold  look  had 
disappeared,  and  there  was  nothing  but  a  plain  dark 
canvas  to  be  seen.  Then  he  spoke,  as  if  to  himself  — 

"  If  I  could  as  easily  undo  the  injustice  of  painting 
her  thus  !  " 


TRIFLETON   PAPERS.  287 

"  Injustice  !  Why,  did  not  her  friends  pronounce 
it  a  perfect  likeness  !  " 

"  It  was  a  picture  of  her  sorrow  and  her  anger,  not 
of  her  real  self.  It  was  painted  in  pique,  and  for  the 
purpose  of  wounding,  if  it  possibly  might  convey  a 
meaning  to  her.  It  was  utterly  unworthy  of  her  and 
of  myself.  I  know  now  that  it  must  have  added  tor 
ture  to  an  already  troubled  heart,  and  I  feel  guilty  of  a 
mean  and  ungenerous  action." 

"  But  you  had  no  reason  to  suppose  that  it  would 
wound  her  ?  " 

"  That  is  the  only  excuse  I  have,  and  that  is  a  paltry 
one.  A  generous  man  should  at  least  measure  his 
actions  by  his  own  feelings,  but  I  deliberately  did  what 
I  knew  must  pain  feelings  no  more  sensitive  than  my 
own,  —  and  that,  too,  towards  a  woman." 

It  was  more  his  manner  and  tone  than  his  language 
that  indicated  emotion.  He  might  have  spoken  thus 
in  relation  to  any  other  woman,  but  Bel  called  forth 
something  more  than  words,  something  more  than 
chivalrous  feeling.  But  he  had  little  time  now  to 
indulge  in  feelings,  or  contemplate  going  to  Italy,  be 
fore  a  knock  at  the  door  called  his  attention.  The 
door  being  opened,  Dicky  Dawson  entered  and  handed 
a  note  to  Umber. 

Dicky  appeared  quite  the  gentleman,  in  new  clothes 
and  with  his  bright,  intelligent  and  healthful  face. 
While  Umber  read  the  note  —  and  it  seemed  to  take 
him  some  time  —  we  spoke  to  Dicky,  inquiring  after 
Bel. 

"  She's  quite  well,  now,  sir." 

"  Quite  well  !     Has  she  been  sick  ?  " 


288  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

"  She  has  looked  sick,  sir,  —  and  sad." 

"  And  she's  better  now  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir,  —  she's  happier  —  but  she  cries,  too, 
sometimes." 

"  Why  do  you  think  she's  happier  ?  " 

"  O,  sir,  she  speaks  to  me  more,  and  is  kinder  than 
ever,  —  and  she  seems  as  if  she  had  got  over  a  great 
trouble,  she  speaks  and  smiles  so.  She  didn't  smile 
before." 

"  But  she  cries,  too,  you  say." 

"  Yes,  sir,  sometimes  I  see  her  wiping  her  eyes. 
When  I  wished  I  could  see  Mr.  Umber,  who  read  books 
to  me  when  I  was  sick,  she  cried  most.  But  then  she 
gets  over  it  quick,  sir,  and  smiles  again.  I  know  she 
must  be  happier  than  she  was." 

"  Observant  boy,"  thought  we,  as  Umber,  who  prob 
ably  had  not  heard  a  word  of  this  conversation,  handed 
to  us  the  note  he  had  just  received.  It  was  as  follows  : 

**  The  relations  which  might  have  entitled  the  Hon.  Mr.  Weed 
to  my  portrait  being  terminated,  I  desire  that  no  one  but  myself 
should  have  the  picture  which  you  painted.  Please  retain  it 
until  my  brother  returns.  I  could  wish,  indeed,  that  it  had 
never  been  painted,  were  it  not  for  the  few  pleasant  memories 
which  are  mingled  with  much  pain  and  bitterness.  The  picture 
itself  can  only  be  suggestive  of  sorrow  and  regret,  not  the  least 
of  which  will  be  for  the  unkind  words  that  I  may  have  uttered  to 
you,  and  for  which  I  ask  your  forgiveness.  BEL  HARD." 

"  She  ask  my  forgiveness  !  " 

He  spoke  with  suppressed  emotion,  as  we  finished 
reading  the  note,  and  paced  the  narrow  open  space  of 
the  room  rapidly.  He  was  deeply  moved,  and  though 
to  our  apprehension  there  was  more  reason  for  his  re 
joicing  than  sorrowing,  there  was  a  most  unhappy  look 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  289 

on  his  face.     Suddenly  he  stopped  before  Dicky,  who 
had  watched  him  with  wonder. 

"  How  did  you  come,  my  boy  ? " 

"  In  the  carriage  with  Miss  Bel." 

"  And  she ?  " 

"  She  is  in  the  carriage,  now,  sir." 

"  Did  she  tell  you  to  wait  for  an  answer  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  —  but  she  said  perhaps  you  might  wish  to 
send  one." 

Ah,  Bel !  how  much  that  "  perhaps "  revealed, 
mask  though  it  was  intended  to  be. 

"  I  will."     And  Umber  hurried  to  a  writing  desk. 

Just  then  there  was  another  knock  at  the  door,  which 
Dicky  opened,  and  Bel  Hard  entered,  saying, 

"  Why,  Richard,  I  thought  you  were  lost." 

At  the  sound  of  that  voice  Umber  started  from 
his  seat  and  rushed  across  the  room.  There  was  as 
sudden  a  motion  on  the  other  side  and  a  double  ex 
clamation. 

"  Bel ! " 

"  Paul ! " 

Umber's  name  is  Paul.  Bel  had  always  called  him 
so  when  they  were  children. 

Bel  put  out  both  her  hands,  which  were  eagerly 
seized  by  Umber,  and  she  looked  up  in  his  face  with 
an  earnest,  tearful  gaze,  in  which  were  expressed  the 
struggling  feelings  of  her  heart,  a  tried,  chastened, 
loving  heart.  He  looked  back  into  those  eyes  as  he 
never  before  had  looked,  tenderly,  lovingly,  sadly. 

"  It  is  not  for  me  to  forgive,"  he  said  softly,  but  with 
deep  feeling.   "  I  ought  rather  to  ask  your  forgiveness, 
19 


290  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

a  thousand  times,  for  the  cruelty  with  which  I  wounded 
you  —  when  you  were  suffering,  too." 

Her  head  fell  on  his  shoulder.  She  spoke  not  audi 
bly,  but  there  was  that  in  her  action  and  in  her  tears, 
which  expressed  all  that  words  could.  And  thus  these 
two,  without  declaration  or  acknowledgment,  knew  that 
each  was  beloved  by  the  other.  Our  eyes  were  some 
what  dimmed,  Trifle,  but  we  saw  it  all,  and  the  boy 
looked  on  in  wonder.  But  it  was  not  courteous  to 
suffer  any  further  scene  to  occur  while  Bel  was  un 
conscious  of  our  presence,  so  we  emerged  from  our 
corner  and  spoke  as  she  raised  her  head.  Her  self- 
possession  had  gone,  but  seeing  who  we  were,  she 
extended  her  hand,  and  we  were  better  friends  than 
ever.  But  she  soon  turned  to  Umber,  asking, 

"  But  where  is  the  evil  picture  ?  " 

He  pointed  at  the  canvas  on  the  easel. 

"  If  I  could  as  easily  obliterate  the  memory  of  the 
pain  it  has  occasioned !  " 

"  Obliterate  it !  O  no !  now  I  would  remember  it, 
for  out  of  that  suffering  have  grown  purer  hopes  and 
feelings,  and  a  truer  happiness." 

A  few  more  words  and  Bel  was  gone.  When  Umber 
returned  from  the  carriage,  whither  he  had  accom 
panied  her,  he  threw  himself  in  a  chair,  and  covering 
his  face  he  groaned  aloud.  A  great  struggle  was  going 
on  in  his  mind,  and  for  the  first  time  we  saw  him  en 
tirely  overcome,  and  he  wept.  But  it  was  not  for  joy. 
Such  an  inconsistent,  perverse  thing  is  the  human 
heart.  Solitude  is  the  best  remedy  for  such  illness, 
and  we  left  him. 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  291 

Umber  has  received  another  letter  from  Abel,  in 
which  he  writes  thus  — 

"  It  is  all  over  now  !  I  have  seen  the  end  —  no,  not 
the  end,  for  the  love  of  earth  has  passed  on  to  love  in 
heaven.  Lily  is  dead  —  rather  her  spirit,  that  made 
her  earthly  form  so  beautiful,  the  spirit  that  has  so 
charmed,  purified  and  elevated  my  heart,  has  passed 
into  another  world,  and  carries  with  it  my  thoughts, 
and  hopes,  and  love. 

"  It  was  Sunday  evening.  She  had  grown  weaker 
and  weaker  through  the  day,  and  we  felt  that  with  the 
fading  twilight  she  would  depart.  She  had  uttered  a 
few  words  during  the  day,  a  touching  farewell  to  her 
heart-broken  father,  and  words  of  holiest  love,  sus 
taining  comfort,  and  tender  entreaty,  to  me.  The  sun 
went  down  beyond  the  snowy  hills,  and  the  shadows 
came  stealing  into  that  silent  chamber  —  the  shadows 
of  night,  the  shadow  of  death.  Her  hand  rested  in 
mine,  cold  and  motionless.  Her  breathing  grew  fainter 
as  the  light  departed.  Then,  while  we  counted  the 
too  rapid  moments,  our  agony  calmed  by  silent  prayer 
—  prayers  that  went  up  to  heaven  with  the  forereach- 
ing  of  her  spirit  —  there  was  a  sudden,  faint  grasp  of 
my  hand,  a  scarce  heard  utterance,  yet  distinct  to  our 
startled  minds,  ;  In  Heaven ! '  —  and  there  was  no 
more  breathing.  The  light  of  day  had  departed,  and 
the  light  from  those  eyes  forever.  The  shadows  of 
night  had  come  —  and  of  death.  O  God  !  My  beloved 
was  dead ! 

"  We  have  laid  her  at  rest  now  —  near  the  little 
village  church,  in  the  frozen  earth,  under  the  deep 


292  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

snows.  The  summer  will  make  it  a  beautiful  spot, 
shaded  by  the  noble  elm  in  whose  branches  now  the 
wind  wails  mournfully.  The  summer  shall  bring  flow 
ers  and  verdure  over  that  grave,  now  so  desolate.  But 
the  sorrow  of  laying  that  beautiful  form  down  on  such 
a  couch  is  lightened,  not  by  the  promise  of  summer's 
flowers  and  foliage,  so  much  as  the  assurance  that  the 
more  beautiful  spirit  is  with  infinite  beauty  and  light 
eternal. 

"  We  have  performed  the  last  rites  and  returned  to 
the  desolate  home  —  ah,  how  desolate,  to  the  stricken 
father  !  0  for  the  power  to  teach  him  to  endure  !  The 
light  of  his  home  has  departed,  but  there  is  a  star  in 
heaven  to  lead  him  thither." 

We  were  not  requested  to  take  this  letter  to  Bel,  for 
Umber  performed  that  office  himself.  Touched  by 
her  brother's  grief,  Bel's  heart  was  the  more  ready  to 
seek  sympathy  and  support  from  another,  and  could 
Umber  deny  it? 

As  we  have  this  from  good  authority,  Trifle,  you 
are  not  to  question  the  truth  of  our  account,  nor  to  ask 
us  how  we  know  what  we  tell.  It  is  true  that  notwith 
standing  the  irresistible  feeling  of  love  which  attached 
him  to  Bel,  and  would  seem  to  promise  happiness, 
Umber  was  sad  and  silent.  There  was  an  expression 
of  deep  distress  on  his  face  as  he  sat  in  the  parlor, 
after  the  reading  of  the  letter  and  after  the  still  firmer 
union  in  their  hearts.  Bel  saw  it,  and  resting  her 
hands  on  his  shoulder  she  looked  anxiously  into  his 
face,  saying, 

"  What  troubles  you  ?  " 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  293 

It  was  an  exquisite  tone  of  love,  but  it  seemed  to 
increase,  rather  than  alleviate,  his  distress,  and  he  an 
swered  nothing. 

"  Will  you  not  tell  me  !  Will  you  not  let  me  have 
the  privilege  of  friendship  —  of  love,  that  if  I  cannot 
relieve  your  distress  I  may  at  least  share  it?  Come, 
you  have  not  learned  the  power  of  woman's  sympathy, 
and  it  must  be  my  privilege  to  teach  you."  » 

"  Your  words — your  tone  —  your  love,  even,  is  a 
torture  to  me  !  " 

Bel  started  back  and  turned  pale.  The  suppressed 
anguish  of  his  voice  and  his  words  alarmed  her  heart. 

"  Am  I  deceived  then  !  —  you  love " 

"  I  love  you,  —  passionately,  —  with  all  the  strength 
of  manhood,  all  the  ardor  of  youth  !  I  have  loved 
you  from  boyhood  ; —  in  distant  lands  during  years  of 
absence,  and  here  when  I  felt  that  in  your  beautiful 
womanhood  my  boyish  love  were  worse  than  folly." 

A  look  of  joy,  almost  of  triumph,  passed  over  Bel's 
face  as  Umber  spoke  his  first  passionate  words.  It 
changed  to  one  of  tender  reproach. 

"And  I,  —  do  you  doubt,  any  longer — my  feel 
ings  ?  " 

"  O,  no.  Through  the  habit  of  a  false  education  and 
of  fashion  I  still  saw  your  true  nature,  and  knew  that 
it  struggled  with  the  false.  Under  a  severe  trial  and 
through  much  suffering  the  true  has  triumphed  over 
the  false.  But " 

«  But !  —  Do  you  still  doubt  ?  " 

"  I  am  poor.  By  my  own  toil  I  must  earn  my  bread, 
and  not  always  sure  of  successful  toil  even  for  mod 
erate  wants.  You  are  wealthy,  educated  in  luxury, 


294  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

accustomed   to   society,  and   fitted   to  be   one  of  its 
brightest  ornaments." 

"  And  is  that  all?" 

She  spoke  as  if  greatly  relieved. 

"  It  is  enough  to  forbid  our  love.  It  places  a  barrier 
between  us,  and  I  should  be  false  to  my  sense  of  right 
and  false  to  you,  if  I  attempted  to  overleap  it." 
•  "  And  should  I  be  false  to  womanly  delicacy  if  I 
removed  the  barrier  ?  I  have  wealth,  but  I  thank 
Heaven  that  it  is  a  means  of  doing  good  and  procuring 
true  happiness,  as  well  as  ministering  to  heartless  folly 
and  selfishness.  With  my  fortune  I  should  not  be  a 
burden  to  you  —  and  it  is  at  my  own  disposal." 

"  And  do  you  think  me  such  a  craven  as  to  be 
dependent  on  you  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  everything  that  is  generous  and  noble. 
1  would  not  wound  your  self-respect  or  pride.  I  would 
not  take  away  your  motives  for  effort.  You  could  still 
labor,  but  for  that  distinction  and  fame  in  your  art 
which  I  know  is  dearer  to  you  than  wealth.  May  I 
not  aid  you  in  this  honorable  ambition  ? " 

She  looked  earnestly  into  his  eyes  as  if  to  enforce 
more  than  she  dared  to  utter  in  words.  He  involun 
tarily  threw  his  arms  about  her,  and  pressed  her  to  his 
bosom. 

"  Noble  woman  !  I  should  be  utterly  unworthy  of 
your  love  were  I  to  suffer  you  to  do  what  your  gener 
ous  affection  prompts.  You  have  a  position  to  cherish 
—  the  opinion  of  the  world  to  respect  —  friends  to  be 
regarded.  I  should  be  base  to  suffer  you  to  sacrifice 
these  to  a  generous  impulse." 

"  Her  friends   shall   honor  her,   and    approve   her 


TRIFLETON   PAPERS.  295 

choice,"  said  a  voice  behind  them.  They  started,  and 
Bel  threw  herself  into  the  arms  of  her  brother,  who, 
entering  unperceived,  came  forward,  and  had  heard 
the  last  of  their  conversation. 

"And  you  are  not  married,  then !"  he  exclaimed, 
"  Thank  heaven !  you  have  escaped  that,  and  have 
made  a  nobler  choice." 

He  then  explained  that  he  had  not  received  her 
letter  until  the  messenger  who  carried  his  last  letter  to 
the  post  had  brought  it  on  his  return.  He  lost  no  time 
in  coming,  dreading  that  he  should  find  Bel's  misery 
sealed  by  marriage  vows.  There  was  a  new  earnest 
ness  and  decision  in  Abel's  pale  face,  as  he  spoke, 
and  its  sadness  gave  a  dignity  and  impressiveness  to 
what  he  said.  So  it  was  that  he  calmed  the  doubts  in 
Umber's  mind,  and  pressing  his  hand  warmly,  said, 

"  You  and  Bel  shall  have  a  brother's  blessing." 

Again  we  ask  you^  Trifle,  what  think  you  of  the 
world  ? 


296  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 


XXXIII. 


TRIFLETON  HOUSE,          > 
As  the  Spring  commences.  £ 

SPRING  once  more  !  Soon  the  buds  will  be  out  on 
the  trees,  the  birds  singing,  and  the  fragrant  lap  of 
earth  filled  with  flowers  of  every  hue  and  name  !  The 
sweet  blue  violets  will  appear  on  the  hills,  and  the 
dark,  wintry  frown  pass  from  the  sea.  All  nature  will 
be  wreathed  in  smiles  again,  and  the  long,  dreamy 
days  of  sunshine  and  hope  come  back.  All  the  in 
habitants  of  Trifleton  House  rejoice  in  anticipation. 

I  have  become  much  addicted  to  studying  the  "  New 
England  Farmer,"  of  late.  Pat.  threatens  to  show  me 
how  flowers  can  be  induced  to  flourish  under  her 
superintendence,  and  Prig  seriously  contemplates  an 
accession  of  several  rabbits  to  his  existing  stock  of  val 
uables,  and  he  even  has  thrown  out  hints  of  a  small 
dog,  to  accompany  him  in  his  excursions  with  his  velo 
cipede.  We  shall  see. 

But,  my  Editor,  I  wish  to  call  your  friendship  to  the 
test,  and  have  a  favor  to  ask,  and  you  a  duty  to  per 
form  ;  an  arduous  one,  I  admit,  but  I  see  not  how  you 
can  escape  it.  So  courage,  man,  courage  ! 

I  understand  the  exuberant  Miss  of  nineteen  sum 
mers  (twenty  now),  and  your  smart  subscriber,  too, 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  297 

have  both  been  extremely  interested  in  this  correspond 
ence.  It  is  stated  tome  authoritatively,  and  I  believe  it 
to  be  as  true  as  the  veracious  telegraphic  despatches 
from  Washington  (which  nobody  ever  yet  doubted), 
that  the  actual  experiences  of  life  therein  recorded, 
have,  in  some  sense,  come  home  to  them. 

"  Why,"  said  your  smart  subscriber,  "  if  Pink's 
father  has  failed,  why  may  not  I,  by  possibility  ? 
Who  can  tell  ?  "  And  the  exuberant  Miss  has  been 
heard  to  remark,  "  V^hy  may  not  Bel  Hard's  case  be 
mine,  and  am  I  not  thinking  and  acting  as  Pink  used 
to  last  summer  ?  Wouldn't  I  better  pause  a  little  ?  " 
She  also  added,  (so  they  say,)  "  As  for  that  Pat.,  she's 
a  darling  !  "  —  which,  I  must  "  own  up,"  I  esteem  as 
quite  a  compliment  to  —  myself. 

Now,  what  I  desire  of  you  is  this.  My  pens  of 
every  kind  are  quite  worn  out,  and  I,  myself,  am  pass 
ing  into  desuetude.  Hence,  this  correspondence  must 
cease.  I  can  write  no  more,  and  I  wish  you  to  an 
nounce  that  fact  to  your  readers.  You  must  break  it 
to  them  as  gently  as  possible. 

You  could  do  it  in  this  wise.  You  might  call  on  the 
exuberant  Miss,  and  send  up  your  card  —  "  The  Ed 
itor  "  —  and  after  waiting  an  hour  or  two  for  her  ap 
pearance  (she  changing  her  dress  and  "  fixing  "  her 
hair  meantime),  you  might,  when  she  came  in  upon 
you,  after  the  usual  commonplaces,  and  a  slight  dis 
cussion  respecting  Lagrange  and  Didiee,  casually 
remark,  "  Trifle  is  in  a  bad  predicament.  His  pens 
are  all  used  up,  and  he  can't  afford  any  more.  No 
doubt  you  are  tired  of  his  platitudes,  &c.,  &c."  At 
which  she  will  say  something,  and  then  you  can  say 


298  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

something  more,  (all  the  while  collecting  your  courage,) 
and  then  she  will  interrupt  you  with  great  volubility, 
and  while  she  is  rushing  on  at  railroad  speed,  you  can 
prepare  the  announcement  in  fit  terms,  that  Trifle  is 
really  about  to  say  good-bye.  It  might  be  well  to  have 
a  bottle  of  Cologne  with  you,  in  case  she  should  see 
fit  to  faint. 

Your  smart  subscriber  must,  I  think,  be  managed 
somewhat  differently. 

It  would  be  well,  perhaps,  to  ask  him  about  his 
clipper  ships,  and  comment  upon  cotton,  corn,  and 
consols,  and  freights  to  California  and  Australia,  and 
the  amount  of  his  loss  by  the  last  peculation  from  some 
Kailroad  Company,  Insurance  Company,  or  Bank,  in 
which  he  is  largely  interested  as  a  stockholder,  —  and 
then  add  that  the  paper  (there  is  only  one  paper  — 
"  the  Editor's  "  paper),  henceforth,  will  be  filled  with 
something  else  than  this  stuff  from  Trifle.  There's 
been  quite  a  sufficiency  of  it.  The  thing  must  be 
managed  very  adroitly. 

So,  mind  ! 

He  will  say  that  he's  rather  sorry  on  the  whole  (non 
committal,  you  perceive,  that  is,  business  like),  for  he's 
been  somewhat  amused  with  the  correspondence,  oc 
casionally  ;  but  that  there  have  been  a  great  many 
words  wasted  in  it ;  that  there  hasn't  been  enough 
coming  to  the  point,  and  that  it's  hardly  worth  while 
for  "  a  business  man  "  to  spend  his  time  reading  too 
much  of  such  sort  of  writing ;  and  he  supposed  it  was 
about  drawing  to  a  close ;  but,  really,  he  would  like  to 
know  how  Pink's  father  was  getting  on,  and  whether 
he  intended  to  let  her  marry  that  man,  Stubs,  who  is  a 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  299 

strange  sort  of  a  fellow,  and  worth  nothing  now,  though 
lately,  he  must  confess,  he  has  "  done  the  right  thing," 
(elegant  expression,)  and  that  he  appears  to  be  "  pretty 
smart,"  (another,)  and  if  he  were  only  a  little  more 
"  wide  awake,"  (another  yet,)  he  could  probably  "  get 
along,"  and  "  go  ahead,"  (a  couple  of  'em,)  well 
enough. 

To  all  this,  you  can  make  such  a  reply  as  you  think 
expedient,  and  then  tell  him  that  Trifle  bids  him  an 
especial  good-bye,  and  that  he  is  much  indebted  to 
him  for  the  interest  he  takes  in  his  friends,  and  (pri 
vately)  that  he  would  be  glad  to  see  him  at  Trifleton 
House  next  summer;  that  Trifle  invites  him  to  dine, 
in  a  word  ;  and  that  he  will  meet  Pink's  father,  Stubs 
and  his  beautiful  wife,  (Stubs  intends  to  marry  some 
body,  in  the  early  summer,  —  so  Pat.  says,  and  I  pre 
sume  she  will,  of  course,  be  beautiful,)  and,  that  he 
will,  possibly,  meet,  too,  tl?e  man  with  the  corn-colored 
gloves.  This  gentleman  has  left  us,  and  has  promised 
Pink  that  he  will  come  again  next  summer.  Perhaps 
he  will,  but  1  consider  it  somewhat  doubtful.  He  is 
much  changed.  He  is  more  subdued  than  he  was.  His 
conversation,  too,  is  of  a  different  order. 

Have  you  observed  how  circumstances  often  change, 
abruptly,  the  whole  style,  tone,  and  character  of  a 
man  ?  Pink  tells  Pat.  that  we  have  never  done  the 
gentleman  justice,  and  that  he  has  been  far  more  gener 
ous  to  her  than  she  had  any  right  to  expect,  and  that 
she  shall  never  cease  to  regard  him  as  one  of  her 
best,  truest,  and  most  tried  and  disinterested  friends. 
Queer  !  Isn't  it  ?  but,  who  pretends  to  explain  wo 
men  ? 


300  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

He  called  to  see  Goody  Green,  while  he  was  here, 
"  in  answer  to  her  fine  letter,"  as  he  said,  and  she 
declares  "  he  is  a  gentleman,  every  inch  on  him." 
Let  us  never,  my  Editor,  accuse  any  human  being  of 
wanting  a  heart.  Most  people  have  hearts,  in  their 
way.  The  wretched  conventional  habits  and  require 
ments  of  our  time  make  us  suspicious  of  each  other. 
Mere  style  and  courtesy  pass  so  current  for  feeling, 
that  we  become  apt  to  question  the  existence  of  feeling. 
There  are  so  many  counterfeits,  that  we  grow  into  the 
belief  that  there  is  nothing  real  and  genuine.  Fashion 
has  put  truth  to  the  blush,  and  diplomacy  is  becoming 
to  be  regarded  as  a  higher  quality  than  sincerity. 

In  case  the  exuberant  Miss  should  ask  you  whether 
Pink  intends  to  marry,  as  well  as  Stubs,  you  may  say 
that  she  would  better  inquire  of  Goody  Green  on  that 
point.  I  can't  keep  the  run  of  such  things.  Pat.  is 
looking  over  my  shoulder  at  this  point,  and  if  you  con 
sider  her  exclamation  worth  having,  I  will  give  it  to 
you,  she  says  : 

"  Why,  Trifle  —  how  you  talk  !  You  know  the 
wedding  day  is  fixed." 

This  is  very  true,  and  I  presume  Pink  will  not 
change  her  mind,  for  what  woman  was  ever  yet  known 
to  change  her  mind,  from  Eve  down  ? 

While  I  think  of  it,  I'm  rather  inclined  to  the  opinion 
that  the  exuberant  Miss  would  better  come  to  Trifleton 
House  and  make  a  slight  visit.  She,  possibly,  might 
be  permitted  to  see  the  wedding  dress,  and  be  con 
sulted  upon  the  style  of  its  cut,  etc.  Has  she  good 
taste  ? 

And  now,  serenest  of  Editors,  I  bequeath  to  you  my 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  301 

farewell.  There  is  always  something  sad  to  me  in 
saying  "  good-bye."  But  meetings  and  partings  are 
about  the  substance  of  this  life.  Friends  come  and 
go.  Enjoyment  is  but  for  a  season.  Blessings  are 
at  best  periodical,  and  happiness,  if  there  be  such  a 
thing,  has  wings.  There's  nothing  fixed  this  side  of 
Eternity. 

But  let  us  hope  on  !  Separation  and  absence,  and 
non-intercommunication,  even,  are  impotent  in  case  of 
a  real  attachment ;  and,  most  excellent  of  friends,  and 
most  imperturbable  of  Editors,  Trifle  wears  you  in  his 
heart,  and  will  henceforth.  When  hope  grows  dim, 
and  expectation  dingy,  please  to  reflect  that  down  in 
humble  Trifleton  House  are  those  that  think  of  you 
most  tenderly  !  Mrs.  Editor,  too,  and  the  incipients, 
are  remembered  and  talked  of  by  Pat.  Come  !  —  by 
several  means,  if  not  by  all  means,  come  and  see  us  ! 
Be  with  us,  and  of  us  ! 

We  are  unfashionable,  and  little  skilled  in  the  ways 
of  this  world,  and  we  know  next  to  nothing  of  society. 
We  are  simple  and  unsophisticated.  We  dress  poorly 
and  talk  plainly.  We  are  of  those  who  reflect  that  our 
Lord  and  Saviour,  Jesus  Christ,  associated  with  hum 
blest  fishermen,  while  illustrating  his  earthly  career, 
and  we  are  disposed  to  guage  people  by  their  moral 
and  intellectual  worth.  We  are  not  ashamed  to  call 
Goody  Green  our  friend. 

Sufficiently  stupid  we  are,  doubtless,  but  we  hold 
that  pretence  and  affectation  are  inadmissible  ;  we  are 
quite  willing  to  pass  for  what  we  are  —  commonest  of 
folks.  No  grandest  men  or  fishionablest  women  will 
come  to  Trifleton  House  ;  and  therefore,  it  is,  we  thank 


302  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

God.  To  all  simplest  and  sincerest,  and  most  natural 
people  we  say, '  come  ! ' 

The  way  to  find  the  house  is  this.  You  get  into  the 
cars  (without  purchasing  a  ticket),  and  when  the  con 
ductor  comes  along  and  says,  "  ticket,  sir !  "  or  "  ticket, 
ma'am  !  "  you  reply  simply,  "  Trifleton  House  ;  "  at 
which  he  politely  says  it  will  be  so  and  so,  (when  you 
are  with  Trifle  there  will  be  nothing  to  pay,  for  no 
friend  shall  ever  visit  his  house,  in  his  company,  at  a 
pecuniary  expense,)  and  you  travel  on  till  you  stop. 
You  stop  several  times,  indeed,  before  you  get  there. 
And  when  you  arrive  at  the  Station,  and  get  out,  you 
see  —  not  much  of  anything,  as  I  should  say.  There's 
a  river,  and  a  hill,  and  two  shoe  manufacturers'  shops. 
You  walk  on  a  considerable  distance,  and  then  you 
turn,  and  then  you  walk  on  again  ;  and  then,  after  a 
slight  advance,  you  turn  once  more,  and  then  you  go 
straight  forward  till  you  arrive  at  Trifleton  House. 
You  can't  miss  it. 

After  these  explicit  directions,  we  shall  expect  you 
to  come,  all  of  you,  readers  of  "  the  Editor's  paper." 

We  shall  be  glad  to  see  you.  So  come  !  come  !  ! 
come  !  !  ! 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  303 


XXXIV. 


THE  ARM  CHAIR,       > 
As  the  end  approaches.  } 

IT  is  quite  true,  most  worthy  Trifle,  that  all  things 
earthly  must  have  an  end,  and  notwithstanding  your 
letters  are  not  altogether  earthy,  we  have  feared  that 
they  must  sooner  or  later  be  subject  to  the  immutable 
law.  Nevertheless,  your  announcement  is  somewhat 
abrupt,  and  we  were  disposed,  at  first,  to  lament,  both 
on  our  own  account,  and  on  account  of  the  numerous 
readers  to  whom,  after  perusing  them,  we  have  passed 
over  your  letters.  But  upon  reflection  we  are  rather 
inclined  to  rejoice,  for  of  what  should  we  tell  you  in 
return  ? 

We  were  at  the  Hard  Mansion  a  day  or  two  since, 
and  discovered  that  we  should  have  little  more  to  say 
of  its  inmates.  Bel's  portrait  was  hanging  in  the  li 
brary,  —  the  beautiful  picture  in  which  Umber,  look 
ing  deeper  than  the  surface,  had  revealed  Bel's  real 
loveliness.  Bel  was  there,  too,  with  a  radiant  smile 
which  made  her  more  beautiful  than  the  picture.  It 
was  a  smile  of  happiness  as  she  looked  at  the  artist, 
who,  with  such  rare  skill,  had  revealed  her  heart  and 
stamped  its  beauty  alike  on  the  original  and  the  coun 
terfeit.  Umber  was  there,  with  no  trace  of  trouble 


304  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

in  his  look,  and  the  light  of  genius  glowing  in  his 
face.  Abel,  with  his  pale  face,  half  sorrowful,  half 
happy,  sat  by,  resolving,  rather  than  dreaming,  as  of 
old.  And  Madame  Hard  was  present,  also,  some 
what  subdued,  but  looking  well  content,  as  if  she 
heartily  assented  to  the  aphorism  "  whatever  is,  is 
right." 

They  were  arranging  plans  for  a  tour  in  Europe 
and  a  sojourn  in  Italy,  and  are  to  take  their  departure 
ere  many  weeks  have  gone  by.  So,  you  perceive, 
Trifle,  we  shall  have  nothing  to  communicate  to  Mrs. 
Trifle  —  you  are  of  secondary  importance,  you  know 
—  unless  it  should  be  an  account  of  a  wedding,  and 
that's  of  no  consequence  to  her  or  to  us.  The  truth  is, 
that  these  people,  who  have  been  playing  some  scenes 
in  the  drama  of  this  life,  as  it  were  for  our  especial 
benefit,  are  about  to  make  their  exit.  The  curtain  is 
to  fall,  and  whether  they  shall  appear  again,  or  what 
strange  plot  shall  be  developed  in  the  succeeding  acts, 
it  is  not  for  us  to  know.  The  veil  cannot  be  lifted. 

Of  what  then  should  we  write  ?  Shrimp,  having 
three  times  prepared  his  rods  and  lines,  his  hooks  and 
flies,  and  all  his  piscatorial  paraphernalia  for  the  coming 
season,  and  having  committed  to  memory  the  pages  of 
bid  Izaak  Walton,  has  turned  his  attention  to  mending 
the  world  and  repairing  the  ravages  of  time.  But  he 
does  it  so  practically  and  moderately  that  we  can  make 
no  account  of  it.  As  for  Rompy-Dompy,  we  shall  say 
no  more  of  her  at  present,  but  shall  send  her  to  Trifle- 
ton  House  to  share  in  Prig's  delight  over  the  velocipede, 
.  the  rabbits,  and  the  small  dog. 

Therefore  —  have  you  read  the  premises  ?  —  we,  on 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  305 

the  whole,  have  few  regrets  that  this  correspondence 
ends  here  and  now,  provided  (that's  the  way  the  law 
yers  put  it,  is  it  not  ?)  we  retain  the  friendship  of 
Trifle's  household,  and  all  other  people  who  may  be 
disappointed  by  so  sudden  a  termination.  Yet  —  these 
letters  have  grown  upon  us  like  some  of  those  habits 
which  you  acquired  in  your  city  life,  and  being  shaken 
off  we  shall  probably  feel  at  a  loss  how  to  get  along 
at  first,  as  you  did.  We  believe  in  homoeopathy,  how 
ever,  and  habit,  which  produces  the  misery,  will  also 
cure  it. 

We  pondered  some  time  upon  the  request  you  pre 
ferred,  and  the  arduous  duty  which  you  imposed  upon 
us.  Havn't  we  said,  that  we  are  not  overburdened  with 
brass  ?  If  we  recollect  aright,  we  said  that  you  and  we 
have  as  little  of  this  as  of  the  other  metals  wherewith 
men  make  their  way  in  the  world.  We  are  disposed 
now  to  except  you  from  that  proposition,  seeing  the 
coolness  with  which  you  propose  to  put  our  friendship 
to  the  test.  But  we  seem  still  to  be  wanting  in  brass, 
notwithstanding  you  impose  such  a  quantity  on  us. 

We  reflected  for  a  time  —  longer  or  shorter,  we  can't 
tell  which  —  how  we  should  manage  to  escape  the  duty 
assigned,  and  still  retain  the  good  will  of  Trifleton 
House.  We  to  call  on  the  "  smart  subscriber,"  and  on 
the  "  exuberant  Miss  !  "  It  was  utterly  out  of  the  ques 
tion.  Why,  every  time  we  have  met  him  in  the  street, 
or  seen  her  riding  in  her  carriage,  since  you  presumed 
to  address  them  so  familiarly  in  one  of  your  letters,  we 
have  trembled  lest  on  our  devoted  head  should  fall  the 
vengeance  with  which  we  feared  they  would  visit  such 
presumption.  And  to  visit  them  —  to  offer  ourself  a 
20 


306  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

voluntary  victim  !  — -  it  was  not  to  be  thought  of,  even 
to  deprecate  their  anger,  by  the  hesitating  announce 
ment  that  Trifle  has  ended  — his —  platitudes,  and  we 

—  likewise.     No,  we  couldn't  do  that.     But  after  pro 
found  thought  we  hit  on  an  expedient  which  proved 
the  right  one.     "  Ev^y.a  "  we  shouted,  and  sat  down  to 
adopt  it. 

The  letter  being  printed,  we  marked  the  passages 
which  contained  the  important  information,  in  two 
copies  of  the  paper,  and  directed  them,  one  to  the 
"  Exuberant  Miss,"  and  the  other  to  our  "  Smart  Sub 
scriber."  With  them  each  we  sent  arnote  of  the  follow 
ing  import : 

"  We  are  requested  respectfully  to  call  your  attention  to  the 
marked  paragraphs  in  our  paper.  THE  EDITOR." 

And  so  we  despatched  them,  feeling  as  Atlas  might, 
relieved  of  the  world.  We  pray  you,  Trifle,  don't  in 
flict  such  a  task  on  us  again.  We  congratulated  our- 
self  that  it  was  well  over.  We  said  — 

"  Trifle  thinks  these  people  have  read  his  platitudes 

—  and  ours,  —  and  that  they  have   been  touched  by 
the  experiences  which  he  has  (and  we  have)  recorded. 
He  thinks  that  some  things  ;  have  come  home  to  them,' 
(most  people  have  things  come  home  to  them)  —  that 
they  will  profit  by  what  they  have  read  in  his  true 
history  —  and  ours.     And   above  all,  he  thinks  they 
will  regret  that  he  can  no  longer  write  —  and  we  reply. 
But  here's  the  end  of  it.     He'll  find  how  much  they 
have  read  and  to  what  purpose  —  when  they  conde 
scend  to  announce  it.     In  the  meantime  he  can  '  flatter 
himself,'  and  '  wonder,'  and  '  suspect,'  till  the  whole  is 
forgotten,  —  till  the  '  smart  subscriber  '  has  become  a 


TRIFLETON   PAPERS.  307 

millionaire  or  a  bankrupt,  and   the  '  exuberant   Miss'  a 
dignified  matron,  or  —  " 

That's  what  we  said  to  ourself.  But  even  we  can  be 
mistaken,  in  private.  Our  domestic  conjectures  are 
not  always  reliable,  though  our  opinions  put  forth  to 
the  public  are  not  to  be  doubted.  Why,  Trifle,  we 
actually  received  replies  from  the  "  smart  subscriber" 
and  the  "  exuberant  Miss  !"  And  they  wrote  thus  :  — 
the  smart  subscriber  as  follows  : 

"  Mr.  Ed.  :  —  Yours  of  this  date  is  received  and 
contents  noted.  Trifle  is  about  to  stop  writing  because 
his  pens  are  worn  out,  and  I  suppose  he  isn't  able  to 
buy  more.  I  shouldn't  suppose  that  a  man  entertain 
ing  his  views,  and  living  as  he  seems  to,  would  have 
much  money,  and  it  is  pretty  evident  that  his  credit 
won't  last  long.  He  isn't  right,  and  he  isn't  far  wrong 
in  the  sentiments  which  he  presumes  to  ascribe  to  me. 
1  have  read  his  correspondence,  though  there  is  a  good 
deal  in  it  that  I  don't  understand.  I  find  some  good 
things,  and  I  have  been  a  little  interested  in  some  of 
the  people  mentioned,  but  I  think  that  you  and  Trifle 
both  put  bad  notions  into  young  folk's  heads  ;  making 
them  undervalue  the  good  things  of  this  world,  and 
encouraging  our  daughters  to  marry  poor  men.  The 
example  of  these  people  ought  not  to  have  been  made 
so  public.  However,  the  young  men  are  rather  prom 
ising,  and  I  feel  disposed  to  encourage  them.  I  will, 
therefore,  send  to  Stubs  some  law  matters,  and  I 
should  like  to  have  a  picture  or  two  from  Umber,  for 
my  new  country  house.  He's  a  lucky  dog  to  marry  an 
heiress,  as  I  suppose  he  will,  unless  he  is  fool  enough 
to  lose  the  opportunity. 


308  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

"  On  the  whole,  I  am  rather  sorry  that  these  Trifle- 
ton  Papers  have  come  to  an  end.  The  greatest  fault 
I  have  to  find  with  them,  is,  that  I  have  several  times 
been  reading  them  when  I  should  have  been  calculat 
ing  the  chances  for  a  speculation,  and  on  several  oc 
casions  they  have  set  me  thinking. 

"  I  should  like  to  accept  Trifle's  invitation,  but  really 
his  direction  to  Trifleton  House,  like  much  else  that 
he  says,  is  not  clear  enough  for  a  practical  man  like 

myself. 

"  Your  obedt.  servant,  S.  S." 

"  P.  S.  As  Trifle  is  in  want  of  pens,  I  send  you,  for 
him,  a  package  of  commercial  pens,  such  as  I  use  in 
the  counting-room." 

That's  what  our  smart  subscriber  says,  and  on  the 
whole  we  are  rather  proud  of  him.  The  exuberant 
Miss  writes  thus  : 

"Mr  DEAR  MR.  EDITOR:  —  lam  quite  shocked  to 
learn  that  Trifle  will  write  no  more  letters,  and  for 
such  a  reason,  too.  I  have  really  been  exceedingly 
charmed  with  the  Trifleton  Papers.  To  be  sure  I 
havn't  read  them  all,  but  all  those  parts  which  tell 
about  people,  —  Stubs,  Pink,  Pat.,  Bel,  Umber,  —  I 
have  delighted  in,  they  were  so  much  like  a  story. 
And  then  it  was  so  romantic  for  Bel  to  break  off  her 

match  with  the  Hon.  Mr. 1  forget  his  name  — and 

marry  that  fine  fellow,  Umber,  —  and  for  Pink,  after 
breaking  with  Stubs  in  a  pretty  little  pet,  to  be  recon 
ciled  so  beautifully  with  him  when  he  had  lost  his 
fortune. 


TRIFLETON    PAPERS.  309 

"  And  they  are  to  be  married  !  Why,  it  is  just  as 
good  as  a  novel. 

"  I  shall  be  delighted  to  come  to  Trifleton  House 
and  see  the  bride,  that  is  to  be,  and  to  talk  about  the 
dress.  Bat  to  think  of  that  Goody  Green  writing  to 
'the  York  gentleman,  telling  him  that  Pink  didn't  love 
him,  —  how  queer  !  I  read  some  parts  of  the  letters 
to  Pa,  and  told  him  I  would  do  just  as  Bel  Hard  did  — 
and  as  Pink  did  ;  and  that  I  never  would  marry  a  man 
made  of  money.  He  said  it  was  all  nonsense,  and  I 
must  not  let  such  foolish  stories  turn  my  brain.  As  if 
they  were  not  true  !  But  Pa  is  like  all  pas,  —  he'll 
have  his  eyes  opened  some  day. 

"  And  now,  to  think  that  we  are  to  have  no  more 
letters,  —  it  is  really  too  bad.  My  dear  Mr.  Editor,  I 
have  a  favor  to  ask.  Pa  gave  me,  a  short  time  since,  a 
beautiful  gold  pen  to  write  with,  from  New  York.  Now 
I  send  it  to  you,  and  beg  you  to  transmit  it  to  Trifle, 
as  his  pens  are  worn  out,  so  that  he  need  not  stop 
writing.  But  pray  don't  let  him  know  that  it  comes 
from  me.  Perhaps,  with  a  new  gold  pen  he  will  con 
tinue  to  delights  us.  E.  M." 

That  is  what  the  exuberant  Miss  wrote.  But  as 
Trifle  has  fallen  into  desuetude,  we  have  concluded  to 
keep  the  pen  ourself. 

It  is  settled,  then,  Trifle,  that  here  our  correspon 
dence  closes.  Be  it  so.  Henceforth  when  we  wish  to 
communicate,  it  shall  be  at  Trifleton  House,  and  fol 
lowing  implicitly  your  directions,  we  shall  come  to 
partake  of  the  joys  about  your  hearth-stone. 

Glancing  back  over  our  letters,  and  the  histories 


310  TRIFLETON    PAPERS. 

therein  recorded,  we  are  under  the  impression  -that 
we  have  found  hearts  where  we  least  suspected  their 
existence  —  warm  human  feelings  lying  underneath 
the  cold  exteriors  which  fashion  and  fortune  had 
formed.  Trial  and  suffering  tear  away  the  masks 
which  men  and  women  too  readily  assume,  and  we 
can  look  upon  their  real  natures  and  love  them  better. 
Alas  for  the  folly  that  so  covers  the  true  with  the 
false  ! 

Spring  !  You  talk  of  Spring,  most  sanguine  Trifle. 
Verily,  we  envy  you  the  fancy  that  can  can  see  violets 
underneath  the  huge  snow  banks  that  still  remain,  and 
feel  the  warm  winds,  while  the  mercury  squats  at  zero. 
But  there  is  nothing  like  Hope  and  Faith.  To  them 
the  Spring  will  come,  with  its  sweet  blossoms  and  its 
singing  birds,  with  its  genial  sun  and  its  soft  airs.  Let 
us  also  look  onward  to  a  better  spring,  —  beyond  the 
dark  winter  of  death,  into  the  fields  of  everlasting 
beauty. 

And  so,  most  genial  and  excellent  of  friends,  master 
of  a  household  whither  our  thoughts  come  often  and 
where  our  love  lingers,  farewell,  for  of  the  Trifleton 
Papers  this  is 

THE     END. 


NEW  WORKS  AND  NEW  EDITIONS 

PUBLISHED  BY 

WHITTEMOEE,  NILES,  AND  HALL, 

No.     114:    WASHINGTON    STREET,    BOSTON. 

BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN.  PRICK 

Franklin's  Works.  Edited  by  JARED  SPARKS,  LL.  D.  A  New  Edi 
tion.  10  vols.  8vo.  22  Plates.  Cloth.  $  15.00 

Do.  do.        Half  calf,  gilt.  25.00 

Do.  Life.  By  JARED  SPARKS,  LL.D.  A  New  Edition.  1  vol. 
8vo.  3  Plates.  Cloth.  1.50 

Do.  do.        Half  calf,  gilt.  2.50 

THOMAS   DE   QUINCEY. 

Klosterheim  ;  or  the  Masque.  A  Novel.  By  THOMAS  DE  QUIN 
CEY,  Author  of  "  Confessions  of  an  English  Opium-Eater."  With  a 
Biographical  Preface,  by  Dr.  SHELTON  MACKENZIE.  1  vol.  16mo. 
Cloth.  .75 

"  It  contains  some  of  the  finest  tokens  of  De  Quincey's  genius."  —  Christian 
Rxaminer. 

"  We  have  read  it  at  least  three  times,  and  still  find  our  mind  as  chained  as 
ever  by  the  magic  genius  that  glows  on  every  page."  — New  York  Day-Book. 

"  In  brilliancy  of  style,  vigor  of  conception,  and  skill  in  the  treatment,  Klos 
terheim  is  worthy  of  Mr.  De  Quincey's  rich  and  varied  powers.  Indeed,  the 
tremendous  force  of  his  imagination  is  more  apparent,  we  think,  in  this  work, 
than  in  almost  any  of  his  other  writings.  The  Biographical  Notice  by  Dr. 
Mackenzie  is  worthy  of  special  commendation."  —  Boston  Traveller. 

"  We  do  not  hesitate  to  affirm  that  it  is  much  more  readable  than  some  of  his 
pet  productions,  while  it  is  quite  as  instructive.  It  would  be  known  at  once,  if 
it  appeared  anonymously,  as  the  work  of  a  man  of  learning  and  imaginative 
power."  —  Boston  Morning  Post. 

"  One  of  the  most  remarkable  productions  of  one  of  the  most  remarkable  men 
of  the  age."  — J.  O.  Saxe,  in  Burlington  Sentinel. 

JOHN   STERLING. 

The  Onyx  Ring,  a  Tale.  By  JOHN  STERLING.  With  a  Bio 
graphical  Preface,  by  CHARLES  HALE.  1  vol.  16mo.  Cloth.  .75 

"  One  of  the  richest  and  best  productions  of  a  truly  good  and  gifted  man,  a 
man  in  whose  praise  it  is  sufficient  to  say  that  he  gained  in  his  short  life  the  en 
thusiastic  reverence  and  love  of  Julius  Hare  and  Thomas  Carlyle.  This  '  onyx ' 
is  a  true  jewel,  refreshing  to  human  eyes.  The  value  of  the  story  lies  in  its 
pure,  deep  sympathy  with  all  that  is  best  and  most  hopeful  in  human  life.  By 
virtue  of  his  magic  ring,  the  hero  of  the  narrative  enters  into  the  consciqusness 
of  the  various  men  about  him,  learns  their  power  and  their  weakness,  and  is 


2       WHITTEMORE,  NILES,  AND  HALL'S   NEW  PUBLICATIONS. 

glad  at  last  to  be  himself,  and  to  do  and  suffer  and  rejoice  as  God  meant  he 
should.  The  light  of  a  sweet,  genial,  loving  spirit  streams  out  from  the  page, 
as  the  mystic  brightness  gleamed  from  the  gem.  Mr.  Hale's  opening  sketch  of 
the  author's  life  will  be  very  useful  and  acceptable  to  the  general  reader."  — 
Christian  Examiner. 

"  In  fiction  Sterling  was  happy  but  deeply  philosophic,  and  the  Onyx  Ring  is 
filled  with  gems  of  thought  as  brilliant  and  as  enduring  as  any  in  our  language. 
Read  it,  lover  of  the  beautiful,  the  sublime,  the  good,  —  read  it,  moralist ;  it  con 
veys  a  thousand  golden  ideas,  and  having  read  it  you  will  appreciate  his  charac 
ter."  —  Intelligencer. 

"  Those  who  are  not  acquainted  with  Sterling  need  not  hesitate  to  buy  this 
beautiful  creation  of  his  brilliant  mind."  — F.  D.  Huntington,  in  Monthly  Magazine. 

EDMOND   ABOUT. 

Tolla,  a  Tale  of  Modern  Eome.  By  EDMOND  ABOUT.  1  vol. 
16mo.  Cloth.  .75 

"  With  the  glow  and  passion  of  Roman  life  in  every  page,  dealing  with  a  point 
of  morals  hard  to  describe  without  passing  the  proper  boundaries  of  domestic 
romance,  this  story  is  as  pure  in  tone  as  the  '  Vicar  of  Wakefield.' "  —  London 
JlthencEum. 

"  In  style,  tone,  and  incident,  it  assimilates  with  the  more  artistic  and  pure 
school  of  romance  ;  a  deep  candor  of  feeling,  and  a  chaste  simplicity  rare  in 
French  writers,  make  '  Tolla '  worthy  of  a  place  beside  'Picciola,'  '  Monaldi,' 
'  The  Onyx  Ring,'  and  other  select  works  of  narrative,  grace,  and  beauty.  No 
analysis  of  the  story  would  convey  an  idea  of  its  quiet  charm,  which  can  only 
be  fully  realized  by  a  perusal  of  the  whole."  — Transcript. 

"  Tolla  is  the  incarnation  of  all  that  is  gentle,  sweet,  holy,  and  lovable.  It  is 
a  character  to  be  remembered  when  one  forgets  the  fictions  of  a  lifetime.  We 
venture  to  assert,  that  not  one  who  reads  this  charming  work  will  ever  forget 
the  character  of  Tolla.  It  is  admired  with  the  same  feeling  with  which  we  gaze 
upon  the  portrait  of  a  Madonna,  —  it  is  recollected  as  of  earth,  but  yet  having 
something  akin  to  Divinity."  —  Evening  Oazette. 

"  In  its  delicacy  and  affectionate  simplicity  it  almost  takes  rank  with  St.  Pierre's 
world-loved  Paul  and  Virginia."  —  JVeto  York  Courier. 

J.  G.  LOCKHART. 

Ancient  Spanish  Ballads,  Historical  and  Romantic.  Translated, 
with  an  Introduction  and  Notes,  by  J.  G.  LOCKHART.  With  a  Bi 
ographical  Notice.  1  vol.  16mo.  Cloth.  .63 

RICHARD    HILDRETH. 

The  White  Slave,  or  Memoirs  of  a  Fugitive.    8  Engravings.    12mo. 
Cloth.  1.00 

MRS.  CORNELIUS. 

The  Young  Housekeeper's  Friend  r  or,  A  Guide  to  Domestic  Econo 
my  and  Comfort.    By  Mrs.  H.  M.  CORNELIUS.     12mo.    Half  cloth.        .58 
'Same  work,  cloth.  .50 

Mrs.  Eliza  Farrar,  the  author  of  the  "  Young  Ladies'  Friend,"  in  a  notice  of 
this  book,  says :  "A  person  wholly  ignorant  of  household  affairs  may,  by  a 
diligent  perusal  of  this  book,  become  an  accomplished  housekeeper,  and  even 
practical  housewives  will  find  this  a  valuable  hand-book.  I  expect  to  profit  by 
its  counsels,  and  intend  that  those  who  cook  for  me  in  future  shall  take  it  for 
their  manual." 

WILLIAM  A.  ALCOTT. 

The  Young  Woman's  Book  of  Health.  By  WILLIAM  A.  ALCOTT, 
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WHITTEMORE,  NILES,  AND  HALI/S  NEW  PUBLICATIONS.      3 

JOTHAM   SEWALL. 

Memoir  of  the  Rev.  Jotham  Sewall,  of  Chesterville,  Maine,  with  a 
Portrait.  By  his  Son,  Rev.  JOTHAM  SEWALL.  12mo.  Cloth.  1.00 

EMERSON  DAVIS,  D.D.,  AND  MARK  HOPKINS,  D.D. 

The  Half-Century:  or,  A  History  of  Changes  that  have  taken 
place,  and  Events  that  have  transpired,  between  1800  and  1850.  By 
EMERSON  DAVIS,  D.  D.  With  an  Introduction,  by  MARK  HOP 
KINS,  D.  D.  1.00 

JOHN  WARE,  M.D. 

Hints  to  Young  Men  on  the  True  Relation  of  the  Sexes.  By  JOHN 
WARE,  M.  D.  Prepared  at  the  request  of  a  Committee  of  Gentle 
men.  18mo.  Flexible  cloth.  .25 

SAMUEL  LEECH. 

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L.  C.  MUNN. 

The  American  Orator  :  with  an  Appendix,  containing  the  Decla 
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distinguished  Individuals.  By  L.  C.  MUNN.  Third  Edition.  12mo. 
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DAILY  FOOD   FOR   CHRISTIANS. 

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THE    HARPSICHORD,    OR    UNION    COLLECTION 
OF   CHURCH  MUSIC. 

By  LEONARD  MARSHALL,  and  HENRY  N.  STONE.  .75 

(IN    PREPARATION.) 

A  NEW   COLLECTION  OF   CHURCH  MUSIC. 

By  LEONARD  MARSHALL,  Author  of  "  The  Harpsichord." 
THE   SACRED   OFFERING. 

A  Tableau  of  Remarkable  Incidents  in  the  Old  and  New  Testa 
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A  most  beautiful  gift-book  for  all  seasons. 


4      WHITTEMORE,  NILES,  AND  HALL'S  NEW  PUBLICATIONS. 

JUVENILE, 

ELIZA  LEE   FOLLEN. 

Twilight  Stories.  A  New  Series  of  Stories  for  Children.  By  Mrs. 
FOLLEN,  Author  of  "  Nursery  Songs."  With  Illustrations  from  De 
signs  by  Billings.  6  vols.  Neatly  bound  and  put  up  in  box.  1.60 

Or  separately,  25  cents  each  ;  viz.  True  Stories  about  Dogs  and 
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Garret,  Parts  I.,  II.,  and  III. 

"  Mrs.  Pollen's  gifts  as  a  writer  for  the  young  have  been  long  acknowledged, 
and  highly  appreciated."  —  Salem  Register. 

JULIA  KAVANAGH. 

Saint-Gildas,  or  the  Three  Paths.  A  Story  for  Boys.  By  JULIA 
KAVANAGH,  Author  of  "Nathalie."  With  Illustrations.  16mo. 
Cloth,  gilt.  .63 

"  A  very  interesting  juvenile  tale  by  one  of  the  most  popular  female  writers  of 
modern  times."  —  New  York  Commercial  Advertiser. 

ANNA  HARRIET  DRURY. 

The  Blue  Ribbons.  A  Story  of  the  Last  Century.  By  Miss  DKURY, 
Author  of  "  Friends  and  "Fortune."  With  illustrations.  16mo. 
Cloth,  gilt.  .50 

"  This  is  the  history  of  a  little  French  boy,  who  raised  flowers  to  sell,  and 
whose  grandmother  had  told  him  so  many  Fairy  Stories,  that  he  was  always 
wishing  and  hoping  that  a  Fairy  would  appear  to  him,  and  give  him  some  charm 
that  would  relieve  his  sweet  sister,  and  poor,  old,  infirm  grandmother,  of  the  sore 
load  of  poverty  that  rested  upon  them.  One  day  he  was  walking  in  the  royal 
woods,  and  thinking  (aloud)  of  what  he  would  do  if  a  Fairy  should  appear,  when 
suddenly  the  beautiful  Queen  Marie  Antoinette  appeared  before  him,  with  a 
little  walking  wand  in  her  hand.  He  thought  she  was  a  Fairy,  and  spoke  to  her 
as  such,  and  she  gave  him  a  bunch  of  blue  ribbons  from  her  dress  as  a  talisman, 
and  bade  him  wear  them  when  he  took  his  flowers  to  market  next  day.  Then 
follow  a  great  many  pretty  incidents,  and  some  sad  ones,  all  charmingly  told, 
and  the  story  ends  at  last  very  happily  for  everybody,  except  the  poor,  beautiful, 
unfortunate  Queen  Marie  Antoinette."  —  Little  Pilgrim. 

LIZZIE   AMORY. 

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THOMAS   BINGLEY. 

Tales  of  Shipwrecks  and  Disasters  at  Sea.  By  THOMAS  BINGLEY. 
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T.  D.  P.  STONE. 

Stories  to  Teach  me  to  Think.  A  Series  of  Juvenile  Tales.  By 
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THE  LIVES  OF  CELEBRATED  CHILDREN. 

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Tiiton,  Trifieton  papers, 

, 


